by Fauna Hodel
It was a finer home, slightly larger with two separate bedrooms not far from the old neighborhood near the railroad tracks and stream where Pat and her friends played their games. The prestige that came with living in a home owned by the minister boosted their confidence. Jimmie went to work making the new home comfortable by adding her own personal touch to a somewhat modest decor and sparse furnishings. She filled every empty spot with artificial flowers set in odd shaped bottles and vases. Reverend Mayfield was a more tolerant landlord.
Pat and Jimmie Lee spent a lot of time together at the new house, always with the TV turned on, but rarely watching it. Jimmie saw herself as having a special talent and longed to be on stage or in a movie. Pat watched with fascination as Jimmie performed, but cringed when she started singing, always out of tune and making up lyrics that made no sense to anyone but herself. When she wasn’t singing, Jimmie hummed tunes that seemed to blend jazz or blues with theme songs from TV shows often sounding like Mae West with olives in her mouth.
When they weren’t home together, they were at the Sparks Theater checking out the latest movie. Jimmie always critiqued the performances on the way home. “Tonight we’re going to see Imitation of Life, and maybe even go for some ice cream later,” she said to Pat. “That’s the one with Sandra Dee and Lana Turner.”
“And Mahalia Jackson and Juanita Moore,” Pat added. “I heard that it was real good.”
“I don’t know what it’s about, but we’ll find out.”
Jimmie was dressed in her white pedal pushers and a white embroidered sweater that accentuated her breasts. From the moment they neared the theater together, Pat felt the hostility. The white moviegoers standing in line peered at her with scorn. Pat tried to convince herself that it was her imagination stemming from the publicity that surrounded the controversial film. But as they walked hand-in-hand, she could feel the peoples’ eyes pierce right through her, as if they were the street trash.
As they watched the movie, with the light-skinned actress Susan Kohner passing herself as white and disowning her black mother, Pat felt the odd connection to her own life. It was only at the end of the film, when the actress begs for forgiveness from her departed mother, when it was too late, that Pat and Jimmie Lee allowed the tears to flow shamelessly from their eyes.
Jimmie Lee turned and put her arm around Pat and said, “Are you gonna leave me like she did?”
Pat looked at her glassy-eyed and said, “Momma, I’m never gonna leave you.”
As they walked together out of the theater, the eyes that had bore through her from the crowds were now soft and compassionate. She saw the transformation take place firsthand, and now understood that people could change if they were only shown the truth. It was then that she realized that someday she would let the whole world know her story and make her momma famous.
Mrs. Mayfield was a pleasant woman, polite and formal. She kept active both inside and outside of the church. She was particularly fond of Pat and decided to bring the little white girl along to a meeting with the black sisters from the church. Pat thrilled at their reaction.
“So whom do you take after . . .” asked Sister Ella, “with those big blue eyes and that golden hair? Is that from your mother’s side of the family?”
“Yeah, my real momma is just like a movie star, like Doris Day,” Pat said.
“And what about your daddy? What’s he like?”
“My poppa is a Negro,” she said. “It says so on my birth certificate.” Pat felt them grip onto her words.
“Then how did you get here?”
“My real momma was forced to give me away when I was born cause she was too young to take care of me. So they gave me to my momma and Reverend Greenwade, when I was a baby. And then we got to be here.” Pat knew the ladies were delighted at the straightforward history. She captured the spotlight, just as her momma wanted.
When Pat returned home, she told Jimmie about Betsy showing her off. Her reaction was indifferent. Although Jimmie didn’t believe in the tenets of the Baptists, or the Pentecostals, or the Methodists, or the Catholics, or any organized religion, she knew that it would be good for Pat to be exposed to the teachings of Jesus. Pat knew Jimmie believed in God, but she didn’t believe in the hypocrisy that most of the sisters and brothers of the church practiced.
“Why don’t you go to the services like Aunt Lucille does or like Big Momma and everybody else?” Pat asked Jimmie.
“I been to those churches, I grew up with those churches. I’ve seen the people, grown men and women, acting foolish when the Sprit gets on them in order to be saved. Huh!” Jimmie shook her head and continued. “They get saved one night and the very next night they out fornicating, fighting, cussing, stealing, and everything else just so they could go back the following day and have the Spirit jump their bones again.
“If I’m gonna sin, then there ain’t no Sprit, or prayer, or two-faced minister gonna stop me.” Jimmie was without illusion. Pat, however, didn’t agree, but she kept her opinion private, not wanting to give Jimmie a reason to argue. She loved going to church. She loved the music, the dinners, and the comfort of knowing that she was closer to her angels.
“But that doesn’t mean you’re not going,” Jimmie continued.
“I know, I want to go,” Pat responded with enthusiasm.
The next day Pat was down by the stream with her friend Joyce Gaston and a few of the other kids from the area. They were skipping stones in the water, listening to a transistor radio and taking turns standing on the high rock singing the soulful sounds of their favorite songs, each performance worse than the previous.
Pat wanted to bring Joyce along to the Pentecostal Church. But Joyce and her family, along with all of the other people in the neighborhood, belonged to Rev. Mayfield’s Baptist Congregation. Pat was the only one who was a “Holy Roller.” For the Baptists, the policies of the Pentecostals were too strict. To be “saved” there were many rules to follow, most of which Pat didn’t understand. And she never wanted the “Spirit” to jump on her. She prayed it wouldn’t happen. Joyce and the other neighborhood kids teased her about being “saved,” but Pat knew better. She had been to their Baptist church and the singing was okay. But the Holy Rollers—now that was music!
“This music’s real good,” Pat said to Joyce after they watched Stinger sing a Mathis song on the high rock, “but the music at my church’s ten times better.”
Joyce was caught up in the melody. Her eyes lit up like diamonds, then quickly faded. “Yeah, maybe, but my mother won’t let me go to no Holy Roller Church. She says that the Spirit’ll jump on me, and I don’t want that! No Way! Uh-uh!”
“As long as you pray ’em away, the Spirits won’t get on you. It always works for me.”
After much prodding, Pat convinced Joyce to ask her parents one more time. They were conservative Baptists and didn’t approve of Pat’s church, but just this once, they let her go.
So, that Sunday, Joyce and Pat went together to the Pentecostal Church.
As they entered, Joyce surveyed the area and made a beeline for a seat in the last row. Pat walked past her, turned and said, “No, you don’t want to sit there, you can’t see nothing. Come with me.”
“I can see jus’ fine, I want to be right by the door in case I see that Spirit hoppin’ around. Because if it comes near me, I’m gone.”
“No, you don’t understand, the Spirit don’t go after kids. Kids don’t sin, that’s why my Aunt Lucille used to put me up in the front with the other kids. Cause the Spirit don’t bother us over there,” Pat whispered, “Now come on, follow me.”
Joyce was frightened at first, not knowing anyone, nor what to do. They sat down in the front facing the congregation, where all the sinners usually sat. But from their vantage point, these were the best seats in the house. They could see everything.
Joyce sat quietly, trying not to be noticed as the services began. After the Rev. Webb made a few remarks about an upcoming social event and thanked everyon
e for being there, he asked for all the new members to stand up and say something about themselves. Joyce refused to participate, even with Pat’s nudging.
The pastor then began reciting scriptures, each denouncing the devil and his work, and emphasizing its relevance to the congregation. The organist began playing a slow hymn, which, as the Reverend Webb’s sermon became more dramatic, puffed up into a funnel of passion. Pat motioned to Joyce, who was focused on the sisters of the church all dressed alike, to keep her eye on the organist.
Joyce glanced over to a middle-aged woman with thick, brown-framed glasses seated at the organ. She was twisting away from her sheet music to eye the sinners behind her while attempting to keep the tempo in sync with both the pastor’s preaching and pounding of his fist and the congregation’s rhythmic movements. The members swayed and sometimes bopped on the offbeat, each clapping at first to a distinctly different tune and then finally in unison. The harmonies were beginning to come alive. The organist picked up the tempo and the volume swelled. The pastor was right in line hopping to the music. As the pace quickened to a frenetic tempo, a woman jumped from her seat and shouted, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Let me be saved!” It startled Joyce and prompted another woman to scream aloud.
“Lord! Lord! May the spirit come to me!”
“Amen, brother!”
The organist felt her fingers ring out the music to the sound of the sinners. Suddenly, a man threw his arms in the air and yelled, “The Spirit’s got me, I’m saved, I’m saved, Hallelujah!”
“Amen, brother!”
He shook all over in a spastic whirl. His eyes were white and his head forced all the way back on his neck. He leaped out of his seat. The others were now caught up in the fusion of the thumping and pounding, rhythm and clapping, savers and sinners. Other members started boogying to the music, and everyone on the beat.
Pat glanced over at Joyce whose grin was wide and bright. “This is the place! I mean the music,” Joyce tried to explain as she clapped and stomped to the pulse of the beat, “it’s it!”
“I know, I know!”
This was much more lively then anything the Baptists could dream up. Joyce was impressed. Everyone joined in unison to sing a few hymns. The pastor praised the Lord for saving all the sinners, allowing each to be congratulated by their brothers and sisters sitting next to them. And then it was time for Sunday lunch.
Pat could still feel the rhythm and kept humming between mouthfuls of peas, potatoes, collard greens, and chicken. That was the only thing that was awful about the Holy Rollers—the food was delicious, but it always made Pat sick.
Afterward, the service continued, but Joyce and Pat had had enough. They decided to take the afternoon off and not bother with the evening services. “That was great stuff!” As they snuck away from the adults who kept an eye on the young children, Joyce spoke.
“I’m sure glad the ‘Spirit’ didn’t come on me! I saw all those people getting crazy and it didn’t look like they’d ever recover.”
“No, they get better,” Pat said. “Most of them will be back in a couple of weeks to get saved all over again.”
“There sure was a whole lot of ’em.”
“Yeah, this was a great day for sinners!”
“Now what are we gonna do?” Joyce asked.
“I want some candy. Let’s go the Laundromat near the bus stop. It’s got that vending machine with the good candy.”
Before they entered, they peeked in through the big glass window and saw that the store was empty. Two washing machines were going through their cycles toward the back. There was a shopping cart from the supermarket next to a dryer on the left. The two candy machines were opposite one another near the front entranceway. Pat walked up to the farthest one while Joyce looked at herself in the small mirror on the other. She called off the names of each of the candies: “5th Avenue, Butterfingers, Hershey’s, Clark Bar, Licorice Sticks . . .”
Before Pat could complete all the names, a chunky white man with a red baseball cap and a dirty tee shirt that slovenly hung out over his gray trousers stood behind Pat and stared at Joyce. His unshaven jowls hung in layered rolls down his long face. He turned his head, looked at Pat, and said gruffly. “You can stay, but the nigger? She’s gotta go.” He pointed toward Joyce. Pat looked over at Joyce who was terrified by his appearance alone. Pat was stunned. No white man had ever called any of her friends “nigger” in front of her. They were together; they were the same.
“Well I’m a nigger, too! So we’ll both gotta leave.” Pat grabbed Joyce by the hand and ran out the door, leaving her dime in the machine. They raced back to the church, where some of the parishioners were gathered outside. Out of breath, they related what had happened with the white man in the Laundromat. Tempers flared and everyone within earshot was outraged. Some of the men wanted to burn his Laundromat down, but the elders squelched that idea.
Later, Pat discovered that someone had thrown a brick through the big plate-glass window of the Laundromat. Pat knew that the white man paid a hefty price for his racist slur.
Later, Joyce and Pat talked about that incident, trying to understand why some people were racist. After all, it was the whites that lied and cheated, and kept their people from getting ahead. That’s what Jimmie Lee told Pat all the time, and there was no reason to doubt her, especially when she was sober. Pat was aware that the whites treated coloreds like the cockroaches of society.
The following Saturday, Jimmie forced Pat to go with her to clean houses. Jimmie hated the work more than Pat, but the jobs gave her extra money. Pat would rather be out playing or finding something to do over by the tracks.
“But Momma,” she said, “you never let me help you so we can get done sooner.”
“Never ya mind that. Take a book along and read somethin’. You gotta get an education so you won’t have to kiss anybody’s goddamn ass! Money rules this damn planet; the more you got, the better your chances of staying alive without too much ass kissing.” Jimmie knew of no other way of earning money other then scrubbing for white folks. In the South, where she and her brothers and sisters were raised, no one in her entire family had an education, nor did they know of another way but to work as either a maid or janitor.
But working as a cleaning lady was often not enough. Although Pat never paid much attention to it at the time, there were periods when food was sparse. Jimmie hardly ever ate with Pat and Homer, preferring instead to drink. Many times Pat ate at Aunt Rosie’s while Jimmie purposely spent suppertime away. Most nights after dinner, Jimmie wouldn’t allow Pat to wash the dishes. She was a fanatic on cleanliness. On one of these nights when Jimmie sent Pat to bed early without cleaning up the dishes, Pat climbed out of her bed and peeked into the kitchen where Jimmie was leaning against the sink gnawing on the cold leftover chicken bones from Pat’s plate. Pat watched, unnoticed. This was the same woman who ridiculed Pat for being the bastard child of mixed blood. There she was, doing without the very basic necessities of human survival in order to guarantee that Pat was well fed, fashionably clothed, comfortably sheltered, educated, and spiritually enriched. How could Pat hate this woman, or be embarrassed by her drunken outrageousness? She was truly an enigma.
Tears of understanding filled her eyes as Pat inspected her scrawny frame. She backed away silently, leaving whatever dignity Jimmie had left intact. With the cool, nocturnal breeze gently channeling its way through the narrow opening at her bedroom window, she climbed into bed, burying her head under the wool blanket and squeezing her eyes tightly as if to force her not to think of Jimmie. Instead, she tried to focus her vision on more pleasant matters and prayed to God to let her be able to one day change her life for the better.
As the months passed, Pat became more aware of the value of money. Neither Jimmie nor Homer allowed her to even consider working, no matter how menial or inconsequential the task. Her real job was taking care of Jimmie.
From the time she was seven, Jimmie would send her on errands because she knew sh
e was capable. Everyone knew Pat, and those who didn’t asked who the little white girl was, carrying the big bag of groceries. The response was always the same, “Oh, that’s Jimmie Lee’s kid. She says she’s mixed.” It seemed quite natural for Pat. She would have done anything not to make Jimmie upset. And the older she became, the more she worried about her momma.
Jimmie, as a housekeeper, was a scrubber and housecleaner and obsessed with disinfecting everything. Every six weeks or so, when least expected, Pat would come home from school and find their entire household scattered in the front yard. Nothing was left inside: tables, lamps, clothes, foodstuffs, her toys and old photographs, everything but the beds. Jimmie was inside, sprawled unconscious, and smelling of gin. It was usually hours before she awoke, but the entire house had been disinfected from top to bottom.
One day when Joyce approached the house with Pat, Joyce saw for the first time this spectacle, “What’s this? You moving or somethin’?”
“No,” said Pat. “It’s bleach week!”
“What’s that?”
“Momma’s a cleaner, she has a thing about germs and dirt. So the whole house gets bleached. And when she don’t use bleach, she scrubs it with something else.”
“Do you just leave everything, outside?”
“Naw, we got to put it back, cause she’ll be sleepin’ for a while.”
Together they carried all of the contents back inside the cottage. But before they were through, Jimmie was standing at the door.
“I heard that,” Jimmie said, “I wasn’t sleepin’. I left it there on purpose, waiting to see if any of those filthy Indians from next door were sneaking over here to steal something.”
Joyce was perplexed and meekly asked Jimmie. “Why are the Indians gonna steal this stuff?”
“Cause those low-life redskins would steal anything; they’d steal the spots off ya dog if you wasn’t watching them. Can’t trust them. And my stuff here is better than anything they got.”