I give her a stupid smile, like I really believe this, and go back to wiping the mirrors.
Dont do it too good. Leave some smudges.
Its always something, mirrors, floors, a dirty glass in the sink or the trash can full. Weve got to make it believable, shell say and I find myself reaching for that dirty glass a hundred times to wash it. I like things clean, put away.
I wish I could tend to that azalea bush out there, Miss Celia says one day. Shes taken to laying on the couch while my stories are on, interrupting the whole time. Ive been tuned in to The Guiding Light for twenty-six years, since I was ten years old and listening to it on Mamas radio.
A Dreft commercial comes on and Miss Celia stares out the back window at the colored man raking up the leaves. Shes got so many azalea bushes, her yards going to look like Gone With the Wind[37] come spring. I dont like azaleas and I sure didnt like that movie, the way they made slavery look like a big happy tea party. If Id played Mammy[38], Id of told Scarlett to stick those green draperies up her white little pooper. Make her own damn man-catching dress.
And I know I could make that rose bush bloom if I pruned it back, Miss Celia says. But the first thing Id do is cut down that mimosa tree.
Whats wrong with that tree? I press the corner of my iron into Mister Johnnys collar-point. I dont even have a shrub, much less a tree, in my entire yard.
I dont like those hairy flowers. She gazes off like shes gone soft in the head. They look like little baby hairs.
I get the creepers with her talking that way. You know about flowers?
She sighs. I used to love to tend to my flowers back in Sugar Ditch. I learned to grow things hoping I could pretty up all that ugliness.
Go head outside then, I say, trying not to sound too excited. Take some exercise. Get some fresh air. Get out a here.
No, Miss Celia sighs. I shouldnt be running around out there. I need to be still.
Its really starting to irritate me how she never leaves the house, how she smiles like the maid walking in every morning is the best part of her day. Its like an itch. Every day I reach for it and cant quite scratch it. Every day, it itches a little worse. Every day shes there.
Maybe you ought to go make some friends, I say. Lot a ladies your age in town.
She frowns up at me. Ive been trying. I cant tell you the umpteen times Ive called those ladies to see if I can help with the Childrens Benefit or do something from home. But they wont call me back. None of them.
I dont say anything to this because aint that a surprise. With her bosoms hanging out and her hair colored Gold Nugget.
Go shopping then. Go get you some new clothes. Go do whatever white women do when the maids home.
No, I think Ill go rest awhile, she says and two minutes later I hear her creeping around upstairs in the empty bedrooms.
The mimosa branch knocks against the window and I jump, burn my thumb. I squeeze my eyes shut to slow my heart. Ninety-four more days of this mess and I dont know how I can take a minute more.
Mama, fix me something to eat. Im hungry. Thats what my youngest girl, Kindra, whos five, said to me last night. With a hand on her hip and her foot stuck out.
I have five kids and I take pride that I taught them yes maam and please before they could even say cookie.
All except one.
You aint having nothing till supper, I told her.
Why you so mean to me? I hate you, she yelled and ran out the door.
I set my eyes on the ceiling because thats a shock I will never get used to, even with four before her. The day your child says she hates you, and every child will go through the phase, it kicks like a foot in the stomach.
But Kindra, Lord. Its not just a phase Im seeing. That girl is turning out just like me.
Im standing in Miss Celias kitchen thinking about last night, what with Kindra and her mouth, Benny and his asthma, my husband Leroy coming home drunk two times last week. He knows thats the one thing I cant stand after nursing my drunk daddy for ten years, me and Mama working ourselves to death so he had a full bottle. I guess I ought to be more upset about all this, but last night, as an Im sorry, Leroy came home with a sack of early okra. He knows its my favorite thing to eat. Tonight Im going to fry up that okra in some cornmeal and eat like my mama never let me.
Thats not the only treat to my day either. Its October first and here I am peeling peaches. Mister Johnnys mama brought back two crates from Mexico, heavy as baseballs. They are ripe and sweet and like cutting through butter. I dont take charity from white ladies because I know they just want me to owe them. But when Miss Celia told me to take a dozen peaches home I pulled out a sack and plopped twelve right in. When I get home tonight, Im eating fried okra for supper and peach cobbler for dessert.
Im watching the long, fuzzy peel fold down into Miss Celias basin, paying no mind at all to the driveway. Usually when Im standing at her kitchen sink, I map out my getaway from Mister Johnny. The kitchens the best room for it because the front window looks out to the street. Tall azalea bushes hide my face, but I can see through enough to spot an approacher. If he came in the front door, the back door would escape me into the garage. If he came in the back, I could slip out the front. Another door in the kitchen leads out to the backyard, just in case. But what with the juice running down my hand and me nearabout drunk on the butter smell, I am lost in a peach-peeling reverie. I dont even notice the blue truck pull in.