When Did We Lose Harriet? (4 page)

He’s called me Little Bit ever since—as in “Little Bit, don’t you go butting into things over there. You hear me?” He often complains that I butt in on people’s lives and his cases. I always reply that anybody who’s raised two boys and put up with him all these years knows there are times to butt in and times to butt out.

Tonight I said, with the dignity befitting one elected to a national church meeting, “I’m not going to butt in on a single thing, Joe Riddley. All I’m going to do is help Glenna make Jake get the surgery he needs.”

His voice softened. “Well, from what Glenna said, he needs somebody to pound sense into his head, and you’re the best pounder I know. Tell him I said to go on and get that danged operation so he can get rid of you—then you come on home, you hear me? Don’t even think about trying to go back to Albuquerque for that last day or two.”

“I won’t,” I promised, “and don’t you worry about things here. I’ll keep you posted.” I had no idea, at the time, what a whopper
that
would turn out to be.

After he hung up, I got a glass and was just about to finally get my milk when the phone rang again. “Crane
residence,” I remembered to answer that time. “This is Jake’s sister MacLaren. May I help you?”

I leaned toward the fridge, but the cord didn’t reach. Jake and Glenna are so old-fashioned they didn’t even own a cordless phone. I vowed to send them one for Christmas.

The woman on the other end was courteous, but had whining down to a fine art. “I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I’ve been trying to reach Jake all day.”

While I explained why Jake had been unavailable, I nearly pulled the cord out of the wall so I could finally open the refrigerator. The milk squatted at the back, out of reach.

When she heard about Jake, the woman got real sympathetic, but even that was a sympathetic whine. “Oh, honey, I’m so
sorry
to have to bother you at a time like this. Does the church know? I’ll find time to call tomorrow and get him on the prayer chain, then we’ll organize some meals, but in the meantime, I just
have
to know about tomorrow, because—”

Living with Joe Riddley, I’ve had lots of practice wading into conversations midstream. “Meals won’t be necessary for a while,” I said loudly and firmly. “Glenna and I will be at the hospital most of the time. But I know they’d appreciate being on the prayer chain. Whom shall I tell them called?”

She said her name so fast I missed it, then went on, “Glenna and I are also in the Garden Club together, and the…” When a Southern woman starts describing who she is and what clubs she belongs to, there’s plenty of time to leave a receiver on the counter, pour a glass of milk, and get back before the other person knows you’re gone. I’d drunk half my milk, murmuring “umm’s” at what I hoped were appropriate places, before the woman paused for an audible breath. I didn’t really start paying attention until she asked, “Do you know who Glenna got?”

“I’m sorry,” I said contritely. “I’ve just come in off a plane, and I’m still getting my bearings. What is it you want to know?”

Her sugar turned a bit sour. “What arrangements Glenna’s made about the teen center tomorrow.”

“Teen center?” I was totally in the dark, and so sleepy I was having to swallow yawns before they swallowed me.

If I’d had phone-a-vision, I swear I’d have seen her drumming perfect nails. “The teen center! You know, just off Rosa L. Parks Avenue? Run by the Youth Council? Directed by that nice Mr. Henly?”

I opened my mouth to explain I had never heard of the Youth Council or that nice Mr. Henly, but she rippled on. “Jake goes over the first and third Tuesdays, from ten ‘til noon. I always call to remind him.”

“Well, this time he can’t possibly come.”

Any decent woman would have hung up right then, but this particular specimen was as persistent as summer’s first fly. “We-e-ll…” She drew it out into at least three syllables, followed by a meaningful pause—the meaning being, “This is also your problem now, sugar, so you’d better get on the stick and think of something.”

I did not say a thing.

After a long pause, she sighed. “I just don’t know who I could get this late. Being summer, you know. So many people are out of town…” Another long pause.

I knew what was expected of me. Natives of Montgomery fall all over each other being nice and helpful. I, however, long ago learned to live with the guilt of not always doing the right thing. I drank the rest of my milk and still didn’t say a word. Finally the woman was forced to come right out and ask.

“How about you? Just this once? Mr. Henly counts on us for Tuesdays.”

I simply cannot remember what happened after that. I remember repeating that I was a stranger to Montgomery
who had just flown in to be with my brother. I’m pretty sure I told her at least twice I couldn’t possibly go to the center. I was so tired I may have given out my mother’s maiden name and our bank security code. I would have said
anything
to get off that phone.

Apparently, I did.

By the time I climbed into bed ten minutes later, I’d agreed that the next morning I’d keep the desk (whatever that meant) at a teen center off Rosa L. Parks Avenue (wherever that was), so nice Mr. Henly (whoever he was) wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Oh, well,” I consoled myself, yawning, “it’s only two hours. It won’t kill me.”

I would live to reconsider those words.

An inheritance quickly gained
at the beginning will not be
blessed at the end.
Proverbs 20:21

I woke early Tuesday morning worrying about Jake. The backyard looked so lovely at that hour that I carried my Bible and a glass of iced tea out to a shady bench, hoping to find a breeze and comfort from the Psalms.

There was no breeze, just a hot waiting morning slowly baking Jake’s vegetables and Glenna’s flowers, and sunlight streaming between the hackberry trees. I always associate those tall, gracefully leaning elms with Montgomery and Jake’s backyard.

When I opened my Bible to the Psalms, the first verse I read was no comfort at all:
My soul is full of trouble and my life draws near the grave.
I couldn’t read any farther. Everywhere I looked the yard was full of Jake. Jake building the bench I sat on. Jake crowing over an enormous tomato. Jake bending to carefully place a stone cherub, rabbit, and a miniature St. Francis so they peeped
out from the foliage. Jake, calling us all the way in Georgia to brag when bluebirds nested in the little rustic house he built them.

Tears rolled uncontrolled down my cheeks.
“Please, God, please, God, please!”

Finally I stopped talking and started to listen. As usually happens, the answer was peace. A shaft of sunlight found its hazy way through the tree canopy and pooled just beyond my feet. A mockingbird pierced the morning with its sweetness. A breeze touched my cheek and brought a honeysuckle scent of amazing sweetness. About the time I was beginning to really relax, mosquitoes began buzzing around my ear.

That’s life—mockingbirds followed by mosquitoes.

Naturally, I hadn’t packed anything appropriate to wear to an inner-city teen center. The closest I could get was a mist green linen pantsuit with a Laura Ashley print blouse—not very close at all. “I’ll look nice for Jake later,” I assured myself, combing my hair and putting on bright pink lipstick. I often talk to myself. As I tell my family, a person needs intelligent conversation sometimes.

I was pouring out cold cereal when Glenna got home, dead on her feet. Quickly I fetched another bowl. “Let’s eat out on the sunporch,” she suggested. “It’s so pretty this time of year.”

The sunporch is a back porch Jake glassed in years ago so they could enjoy the backyard. In Montgomery, between mosquitoes and the heat, a glass room makes a lot more sense than an open porch. Glenna keeps a couple of rockers out there and a small table with two chairs.

She gave a huge yawn as she came to the table. “They said we shouldn’t go back to the hospital this morning, because Jake’s having tests and we can’t see him until after lunch. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stretch out a little while.”

I didn’t bother to mention last night’s call. As tired as she was, Glenna would still drag herself down to that
center. Jake always claims that if their house was burning up, Glenna would bring the firemen a nice glass of tea. Actually, it was just as well Glenna
was
so sleepy. When I said, “I need to run some errands, so why don’t I use the Buick and meet you at the hospital later?” she gave me Jake’s keys as pretty as you please. She must have forgotten Jake never, ever lets me drive his cars.

No matter what Glenna said, I wasn’t going anywhere that morning without at least one glimpse of my brother, but it was so painful for him to talk and for me to see him trying, I only stayed a second. “See you later, Bubba,” I promised, gently squeezing his hand.

“Not going anywhere, Sis.” He sank back on his pillow in exhaustion.

Maybe it was because I was so worried about him, but I crossed Rosa L. Parks Avenue three times before I realized it wasn’t a new street, just a new name for Cleveland Avenue. Trust city fathers. When they want to honor their cronies, they build arenas and new expressways. When it’s anybody else, they rename a street.

The teen center, once I found it, was a small brick building that must have been a school before it got so old and dirty—or maybe that’s how it got so old and dirty. The curbs were dirty, too—as I discovered when I got Jake’s white sidewalls a tad closer than I’d intended.

Inside, the building was dim and smelled of chalk, old lunches, and much-used bathrooms. The linoleum, which had once been either beige or gray, was now something in between, but somebody had repainted the walls bright yellow. Walking in from outside was like walking directly into the sun. A stuffy, poorly air-conditioned sun.

While a door marked “Office” stood open, its lights were off and the room was empty. “Hello? Hello!” I stood in the center of the hall and called, feeling a bit foolish.

“Hey!” A man hurried from the back of the building, wiping his hands on the seat of clean but well-worn jeans. “I was fixing a toilet. May I help you? I’m Lewis Henly, director of the center.”

He was the handsomest black man I’d ever seen except in the movies, and he had a voice like honey—or maybe it was that wisp of mustache under his nose that reminded me of bees. He was around thirty, I figured. His hair was cut short, his smile was friendly, his jeans not only clean but starched and ironed. He was clearly surprised to find me standing in his hall, however. I guess he was expecting Jake or hoping for somebody younger, darker, and thinner. Nevertheless, I gave him my most charming smile. “I’m MacLaren Yarbrough, Jake Crane’s sister. I’m taking his place this morning.”

He looked at my linen pantsuit, Laura Ashley blouse, purse and flats, and I could almost hear him totting up the price. He raised one eyebrow and waved a slender hand to indicate the grimy hall. “Not your usual part of Montgomery, is it?”

That got under my skin. Jake and Glenna weren’t the only people in our family with a social conscience. “I have no usual part of Montgomery,” I informed him stiffly. “I live in Hopemore, Georgia, and I volunteered to take Jake’s place this morning because he had a heart attack yesterday and can’t be here. If you’ll just show me what to do—”

“Jake’s had a heart attack? For real? How’s he doing?” While I described Jake’s condition, I had his undivided attention. His concern was so real, I forgave him his earlier unfortunate remark. “Jake’s one of our favorite volunteers,” he told me. “Tell him we miss him, and to get well soon. Now, shall I show you the ropes? Just a minute.” He went into the office and brought back a pink notepad, a battered black notebook, and a pen. “You’ll need these to answer questions and take messages. Other
than that, all you have to do is talk to kids who come. Do you like teenagers?”

“Not particularly,” I admitted. “I’ve always thought penguins had the right idea—put adolescents on icebergs to float away until they grow up. But I raised two boys and a lot of their friends, so I’m pretty good at not letting that show.”

He threw back his head and laughed so hard I could see he had no fillings in his teeth. The way his laugh echoed also made me think the whole building was empty except for the two of us. “The kids will probably adore you,” he told me with another chuckle. “They suspect people who like them.” He opened a door and beckoned me into a large empty room.

Joe Riddley always says I have the best imagination in the world, and maybe he’s right, but I wasn’t particularly thrilled to follow a man I didn’t know into a deserted room. Not one soul in the entire world knew where I was—except that female who’d called the night before, and I doubted she’d stir herself if I disappeared. However, when I give my word, I try to live up to it, so I followed him. The room was, if possible, even stuffier than the hall.

“This is the lounge,” he said, flipping on three high ceiling fans that merely stirred the air like batter. “That scarred monument is your desk, and the black notebook contains answers to almost any question callers ask. If someone wants me, take a message. If they insist on talking to me, send someone to find me—our buzzer is broken. You shouldn’t have many kids. Our sports and vocational programs don’t start until one, and most kids don’t get up this early. But you may get a few who want to get away from bad home situations. A lot go down to the Y, of course, but a few hang out here. Think you can handle it?”

I resisted the impulse to point out that I’ve put up with Joe Riddley for nearly forty-five years, raised two sons, am in the process of helping to raise four grandchildren, daily supervise six employees, and am still relatively
sane. However, when he stopped talking and I looked around, I nearly turned around and went home.

For one thing, the room had that stale ripe onion smell of too much sweat and too few baths. For another, it was filthy. The windows were grimy, cobwebs draped their tops, and the sills were gray with dust. The only furnishings were a few soiled, overstuffed chairs, two swaybacked sofas, and a battered wood desk. Behind the desk sagged the most uncomfortable looking chair I ever contemplated spending two hours sitting on. Beside the desk a wastebasket literally overflowed with trash, and the whole floor was littered with paper scraps and candy wrappers. Heaven knows and my friends agree I am no housekeeper, but I found that much squalor disgusting.

Mr. Henly caught the expression on my face. “It’s pretty grungy,” he admitted. “We had a woman who used to clean, but she quit a while ago. I keep meaning to find somebody else, but I’ve been busy—”

“I don’t want to insult you, Mr. Henly, but I am incapable of sitting in this room for two hours without at least picking up trash and dusting windowsills. Do you have cleaning supplies? I’ll ask some of the kids to help me pick up, sweep, and dust.”

The twinkle in his eye made me think he wanted to burst out laughing, but he said, very politely, “If you find anybody willing to clean, ma’am, I can scare up a few rags and a broom. Now, I need to finish that toilet. The term ‘director’ around here means man-of-all-work.” He started out, then stopped. “Oh. If somebody tries to borrow money for a bus or a Coke, don’t lend it to them. Under no circumstances. Okay?” He waited for my nod, then left. I was on my own.

I gingerly sat down on a chair as uncomfortable and cockeyed as it looked, and perused the black notebook.
The center’s programs were heavy on basketball, volleyball, and car repair and light on academics, art, and music. A drum set, a few guitars, and an old piano would greatly improve the room I was in, and the kids could use a glee club, too. Just in time I remembered: I didn’t live in Montgomery. Good thing. I was about to ask that nice Mr. Henly if I couldn’t scout up a few instruments and help organize a musical production.

“She doesn’t need to learn to say no,” Joe Riddley has been heard to growl more than once. “She needs to learn not to jump in with both feet before anybody even asks.”

When I checked my watch it was fifteen minutes down, one-and-three-quarter hours to go, and drat! I’d forgotten to bring the morning paper. Without something to read, I’d be swinging from the ceiling fans before noon.

I peered around and saw a bookshelf with one dogeared paperback,
To Love or to Die,
lying sideways. The cover showed a woman with a long skirt and very little bodice peering up at a darkened mansion. I would have preferred even a seed catalogue, but I’m not a fussy reader in a pinch. This was definitely a pinch.

Inside, the owner had identified herself in adolescent curlicues:
Harriet Lawson.
Within five minutes I had slipped off my shoes and was deep into the adventures of Celeste Brexall. Ten chapters later, poor Celeste had already survived a shipwreck, a fire in her tower bedroom, and the unwelcome advances of Erik, the evil elder son of the family. She was about to fling herself into the arms of the good second son, when—

“That Basil seems okay, but he’s not. He’s the bad ‘un,” said a cheery voice over my shoulder.

I jumped halfway to the ceiling. When my heart rejoined my body, I took a deep breath and looked up into the face of a friendly brown whale.

Actually it was a girl—she couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen—but she outweighed me by a good fifty pounds and wore her hair pulled into a spout on
top of her head. She smirked. “Boy, you don’t notice nothin’ when you’re readin,’ do you? I come right through that door and walked straight over here, and you never even looked.”

“Is this your book?” I hoped my heart would soon slow to its normal rate.

“Nannh. I don’t
like
reading. It’s Harriet’s. A lot of foolishness, if you ask me. But Harriet told me what it’s about, so like I said, Basil’s the bad one. Celeste oughta been more careful.” She dragged a chair near the desk, draped a bare leg over one arm, and tugged down a purple T-shirt to cover kelly-green shorts. “My name’s Kateisha. What’s yours?”

I hesitated, but I grew up calling black women by their first names. Fair is fair. “MacLaren. My friends call me Mac. And I was only reading until somebody came. I hope Harriet won’t mind my reading her book.” Still, I closed it a bit reluctantly. I’d known from the beginning that Basil wasn’t what he seemed—which romance writer besides Jane Austen creates bad men who are really bad and good ones who are truly good?—but I hated not knowing what Celeste went through before she found true love.

Kateisha gave a grunt of disgust. “How can Harriet mind? She don’t come here no more. I ain’t seen her since…I can’t rightly remember.” In an abrupt change of subject, she demanded, “Where’s Mr. Crane? He ain’t coming no more, either?”

“Oh, I do hope so—” I swallowed a frog that had suddenly jumped down my throat “—but he’s sick today, so I came in his place. I’m his sister.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. He’s had a heart attack.”

“No, I mean for real you’re his sister? That’s cool. I got a brother, too. André. Call him Dré. I come down here this mornin’ so’s he can sleep.” Seeing my bewilderment, she explained, “We ain’t got enough beds to go around, so
most nights he stays out, then uses my bed in the mornin’. But last night Mama put the TV in that room, so I can’t do nothin’ but hang out ‘til he wakes up. That’s why I come on down here early—to see what’s doing.”

She pulled a pick from her pocket and began to lift the spout of hair several inches from her head, turning her head this way and that so I’d notice her earrings. “I like your earrings,” I told her obligingly. They
were
lovely—unexpected, in that place: delicate silver circles laced with silver spiderwebs and turquoise beads the size of pinheads, and with a tiny silver feather dangling from the bottom. When Kateisha tossed her head, the feathers danced.