Fourteen
Just after lunch, I made an excuse to call another taxi to pick me up. If Blanche was suspicious, she didn’t let on. I gave instructions to the driver to take me to an address on Canal Street and he silently drove me there. I asked him to wait and he did as I walked up the clean-swept, but cracked and broken sidewalk to the front porch. I’d seen Blanche’s house before, but I had never been inside. I was raising my hand to knock on the door when it was opened by a young man I guessed to be around twenty years old. I couldn’t say which of us were more surprised, but I found my voice first.
“Is Patrice home?” I asked.
“Uh, yes ma’am, she’s, um, in the bathroom right now,” he stammered.
“And you would be…?” I fished for a name.
“Um, late, actually.”
“Well, that’s not what I meant, but I’ll bite. Late for what?”
“For work,” he replied as he tried to angle his muscular body around my slight one.
“Hold on there a minute,” I told him as I blocked his path with my left hand. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” I didn’t add “alone with Patrice”, but you can bet I was thinking it.
“I’m a friend of Patrice’s. I was just visiting with her before work and I’m really late right now, Ma’am.” He kept his tone polite, but I could tell it was all he could manage.
I heard Patrice’s voice before she appeared in the doorway. “Who’re you talkin’ to, Cedric?” She stopped short when she saw me through the space between his arm and the door jam. “Mrs. Beckworth! What are you…? Why…? Is something…? Is everything okay?” She finally managed to ask.
“Everything is fine at my house, but perhaps I should be asking you that question.”
“Oh,” Patrice paused. “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Cedric was just helping me study for a Latin test.”
“Quota hora est?” I asked, looking straight at the young man.
“Say what?” Cedric sputtered.
I could see Patrice’s shoulders fall as he failed my impromptu exam.
“Studying Latin are you?” I intoned drily.
“Go on to work, Cedric,” Patrice sighed.
“And don’t come back,” I added.
“No problem,” he said as he abruptly dropped his respectful tone. “Later, Patrice,” he threw over his shoulder as he slid around me.
“About two years later or she’s jailbait,” I threw right back.
He grunted and broke into a jog as he stepped off the porch and headed down the sidewalk.
I turned my attention back to Patrice.
“Would you like to come in?” Patrice asked softly.
“Actually, I was hoping I could get you to come shopping with me. The taxi is waiting.”
“Does Mama know you’re here?” I knew what she was asking.
“No, it was supposed to be a surprise. Turns out it is quite a surprise.”
“It’s not what you think, Mrs. Beckworth,” she protested.
“Oh?” was all I said.
“I’ll get my coat,” she said and opened the door wider to usher me inside.
I stepped into the living room of Blanche’s small frame house and was struck by the darkness of it. The inside walls were covered with wood paneling. A large brown gas heater burned noisily at one end of the room and a picture of The Last Supper hung wearily over a deep red couch at the other end. I studied the picture as I waited for Patrice to reappear from the door of what I presumed was her bedroom. The scene was the same as I had seen it in numerous churches and homes over the years. A green-walled room surrounded a long table around which Christ’s disciples gathered, their attention focused on the robed man gesturing from the center of the table. The man’s hair was long and wavy as I had seen depicted in many paintings and renderings of Jesus. The biggest difference was in his skin-tone, which was four shades darker than any I had ever seen. If Patrice noticed me staring when she emerged from her room, she did not acknowledge it.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied. “Where are we going?”
“Christmas shopping,” I said with a lightness I did not feel at the moment.
Patrice and I slid into the back seat of the taxi and I asked him to take us to the J.C. Penney store downtown.
“Meter’s been running,” he said as he pulled away from the curb.
I ignored the comment and turned toward Patrice.
“Tell me about this young man - what was his name? Sidney?”
“Cedric,” she sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-one,” she answered.
“Does your mama know about him?”
“She’s known Cedric since he was a baby!” Patrice sounded a bit defensive.
“I didn’t ask if she knew him; I asked if she knew about him. There’s a difference.”
“What about him?” I was surprised at how well this sixteen year old child could deflect questions.
“Well, for starters, why is he visiting you without your mama being home? Does she know about that?”
“No, ma’am,” Patrice groaned.
“Do you think she would approve?”
“No, ma’am.” She was near tears now. “Are you going to tell her?”
“I don’t like to lie to your mother.” The irony of my phrasing was not lost on me.
“She’ll kill me for lettin’ him in the house when she isn’t there.”
“Patrice,” I sighed, “You’re a bright girl. Exceptionally bright from all I know. Do you realize the chances you’re taking with your life?”
“We were just hanging out together, Miz Beckworth! Honest, we weren’t doing anything wrong!”
“If your mama doesn’t know about it, it’s wrong. What I’m worried about is what you don’t know.”
“I know he likes me,” she said defensively. “He thinks I’m smart and mature…” She paused and then added, “and pretty, too.”
“Lot of people think those things about you,” I agreed. “But not all of them want the same thing from you as he does.”
“How do you know what he wants?” she asked, suddenly sullen, as if she knew very well what I was going to say.
“Because I know, that’s how.”
Patrice sighed and slumped into the corner of the back seat.
“Patrice, you have promise. Do you understand that? You have the talent and intelligence to break free of your situation and make something of yourself.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her head toward the window.
“Something much more than just a young single mother, or a wife if you’re lucky.”
“Bible says being a wife is a good thing,” Patrice countered with the only argument she could find.
“It is a good thing - at the right time and under the right circumstances. Otherwise, it can wind up being a life sentence.”
“You didn’t have it so bad, did you?”
“I wasn’t having sex at sixteen.”
That got her attention. Patrice sat up straight and looked me right in the eye.
“I never did, Miz Beckworth! Never!”
“Good!” I beamed. “And I’m going to help you keep it that way!”
She sat completely still, staring now at the back of the driver’s seat.
“Are you gonna tell Mama?” A single tear escaped the eyes that had long been full and threatening to overflow.
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
“What are you going to do, then?”
“I’m not sure just yet. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Just then, the taxi pulled up in front of the two-story J.C. Penney building three blocks from my house. I could see the twins and Gracie getting off the bus and racing toward my front porch. They never looked in our direction as I paid the cab driver.
“Let’s go, Patrice,” I said jovially as I took her arm and guided her into the square beige building. “We’ve got a lot of shopping to do and only a little time to do it.”
We climbed the marble stairs to the children’s department and found plenty of clothes from which to choose. Patrice knew all the new styles and the sizes the younger girls wore. We chose a dress for each of them, with matching lace socks and patent leather shoes. I thought the socks might be a bit too childish for the twins, but Patrice assured me they would be good for church functions.
We bought smock tops and two pairs of jeans for each of them, and completed our shopping with fancy new underwear from the children’s department.
Then we headed back down the wide staircase to the Misses’ section. I knew Blanche’s size from purchasing uniforms over the years. Patrice and I found a bright blue suit and a matching wide-brimmed hat for Blanche to wear to church. Afterwards, I chose two house dresses and a pair of soft white slippers that I thought Blanche would enjoy.
Once that was done, I ushered Patrice to the Junior Department and told her to start trying on clothes.
“For me?” she asked, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Of course, for you!” I laughed. “What? Did you think you weren’t included in Christmas?”
“I thought maybe you were mad at me,” Patrice said shyly.
“Don’t mistake concern for anger, child. I care about you and I care about your mother and I can’t stand the thought of her bearing anymore heartbreak.”
With that, the tears spilled over in her eyes and she brushed them away with the back of her hands.
“Okay, no crying allowed,” I said, and pushed her toward the clothes. “Let’s see how some of these things look on you.”
I took my initial purchases back to the service department to be gift-wrapped. When I returned, I found a chair near the dressing rooms and let Patrice model every outfit she liked, which turned out to be a considerable few. I paid careful attention to sizes and favorites and, when we were done, sent Patrice to the back to collect our wrapped goods. I chose three pairs of slacks, two shirts and a dress that Patrice had adored, even though I thought it a bit too short for my standards. After paying the clerk for them, I asked her to have them wrapped and told her I would pick them up later.
I didn’t want Patrice to see what I had purchased, so I had the clerk take the other items away from the register, thinking Patrice would return any moment. When she didn’t, I headed for the service department. She wasn’t there, either, and the clerk I had originally seen had been replaced by a middle-aged woman whose thin lips were flanked by the lines of a perpetual scowl.
I identified myself and asked for my packages.
“Oh, Mrs. Beckworth,” the clerk gushed, “I’m so glad you’re here! I just had the most unpleasant experience with a Negro girl over your packages.”
I must have been stunned, because it didn’t register with me what she meant.
“What happened? Did she pick up my gifts?”
“Oh, of course not,” the clerk said confidently. “There is no way in the world I would let one of those people steal your things.”
“Steal my things?” It took hindsight to realize that the sinking feeling in my chest hit before I truly understood what she was saying.
“Why, a girl was just here, trying to take your gifts. I turned her away, of course. She wasn’t going to pull anything over on me!”
“Where is she?” I demanded.
I suppose she thought my anger was directed at the object of her scorn because she nearly crowed in triumph, “Why, the manager has her in his office right now. I imagine he’s searched her and…”
I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I headed right for Red Bascomb’s office, which was just three doors down. I didn’t bother to knock.
“Patrice!” I called her name even as I was turning the knob. I saw Bascomb’s back before I saw the frightened child huddled against the wall. He whirled to face me and she inched from behind him and ran straight into my arms.
I held her against my shoulder and did my best to comfort her, all the while glaring at the stunned man in front of me.
“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded of him.
“Why I was just… I was told…” Red Bascomb faltered. “Is she with you?” he finally managed.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I think I’ve made a mistake, Ora,” Red Bascomb admitted.
“What gave it away, Red?”
To his credit he had the decency to blush.
“I was told she was attempting to collect items that didn’t belong to her,” Red stammered in his defense.
“She was with me!” I hissed.
“I see that now,” he said, his composure nearly regained, “and I certainly apologize. But, it was an honest mistake. I truly didn’t know, Ora.”
I actually stamped my foot at him. Then I took Patrice by the shoulders and turned her sodden face towards him.
“Tell her that.”
Red let out a sigh. “I am sorry, Miss Lowery. I hope you will forgive me, but I didn’t realize who you were.”
Patrice just nodded and turned away. Then, bless her heart, that child drew herself up to her full height and walked serenely from Red’s office and through the store. I followed as she stopped at the service desk and faced the clerk.
“I’ve come to collect Miz Beckworth’s packages,” she said to the bewildered woman, who simply stood with her scowling mouth hanging wide open.
I slapped my hand down on the counter, my bracelets jingling noisily. “Did you hear her?” I asked.
The clerk fumbled with several large bags behind the counter and eventually handed them to Patrice, who took them in each hand and proceeded through the store. Apparently the grapevine was short there, because every clerk in the store stopped what they were doing and watched that child pass with head held high and tears nearly dried.
I wish I could say that I fully comprehended what took place that day, but it is only in the retelling of the story that I understand my part in it. And, Lord forgive me, I just now realized how much my indignation was misplaced. I was upset that Patrice had been treated badly; there’s no doubt about that. But, it never dawned on me how wrong it was that I tied her innocence to the fact that she was with me, not who she was, and I am humbled by my ignorance.