Twenty-five
Walter Beckworth was a planner. His attention to detail and thrift were unrivaled in my book. When he died, I had little to do except open the file marked Funeral Arrangements and follow his instructions. Our caskets, plots and headstones were already purchased, the funeral home pre-paid. There was a page marked “Songs for Memorial Service" with separate columns for Walter and me. We never actually discussed these plans, but under my name he included all my favorite hymns, as if I had chosen them myself. “How Great Thou Art", “In the Garden", “My Jesus, As Thou Wilt" and “Abide With Me" were all listed there in Walter's precise and patient hand.
Of course, in his line of work, Walter was well-insured and I lacked for nothing before or after his death. I lived comfortably and easily continued to pay Blanche a decent salary for keeping my home. Truth be known, however, I had no need for a full-time housekeeper now that I was no longer involved in the day to day business of being Walter's wife.
Patrice's dream changed all that. When I exhausted all the avenues I could take to get financial aid for a bright young black woman who excelled in school, I found that the task was more difficult than I imagined.
And so it was that, at the arguably ancient age of 58, I went back to work. Walter's foresight allowed his insurance agency to continue to run long after his death. His plan was to give me time to sufficiently recover from the loss of my husband before I decided what to do. At that point, I could sell, dissolve or continue to run the company as I saw fit. Quite frankly, when his Last Will and Testament was read, I laughed out loud at that declaration. What did I know about running an insurance agency and what would possess Walter to include such an option? The only questions I have now are: how did he know? And how did I not know my own husband like he knew me?
Patrice applied and was accepted to the University of Florida’s pre-law program. Aside from the small academic scholarship she was awarded, the money came straight from a scholarship fund I set up through the agency. The fund is still operating today and continues to help deserving young women achieve their goals. In all the charitable work I ever did, the food lines, the Christmas baskets, the donations made with smug satisfaction, this was the thing of which I was most proud.
Patrice knew only that I found a scholarship for her and she was beside herself with joy. So was I. Blanche, of course, worried about everything. Would Patrice have a place to live? How would she eat? Who would pay for clothing and other incidentals while she studied? I read the award citation out loud to her and filled in details as needed. In a way, Patrice was the test model for the future recipients of the scholarship. Anytime Blanche came up with a question, or financial issues arose, I amended the trust fund to accommodate the needs.
The tuition, room and board was covered in full and an additional stipend paid so that the recipient's job, for the duration of her academic years, was to earn her chosen degree.
For the next twenty years, which seems hard to believe given my age, I went to the office three days a week and paid myself an additional salary which went exclusively to the scholarship fund. I resumed my community involvement, as I had done when Walter was alive, though now my networking was aimed specifically at fundraising for the non-profit portion of the agency.
As soon as I started working again, I gave Blanche a raise, mostly for putting up with me. When she balked at being paid more than she deemed the job worth, I increased her workload. She never complained again.
Blanche began accompanying me to various charitable events, and I realized the uniform would have to go. I cringe now when I think of how long I kept my invaluable friend and helpmate in those crisp white symbols of servitude. I've always said that the worst thing anyone could ever say about me was, “She means well," but I have to claim now that I meant well. I meant for her uniforms to be part of her pay. I meant for it to be easy for her to wash them. I meant to help her avoid bleach spills and food stains on her own clothing. I never meant to put her in her place, but that's just what I did. And, God help me, it took Dovey Kincaid to make me realize it.
It was Thanksgiving of 1979 and Patrice was home from college for a few days. The younger girls were out of school and stayed home with their older sister while Blanche and I went to the church to help distribute food among the baskets to be delivered. We were working in the kitchen of the fellowship hall, which was fairly large, but a bit cramped with ten to twelve of us working side-by-side.
When Dovey dropped a jar of pickles, shattering the glass and spraying sugary green juice everywhere, she spoke without hesitation.
“Oh, dear, look what I've done! Blanche, could you grab the mop and clean that up for me, please?"
I froze immediately, which halted the entire distribution line. Blanche didn't react at all, except to head for the broom closet.
“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I said, as I found my voice. Blanche stopped abruptly. Dovey, who had marched right over to the sink and grabbed a wet towel to clean herself up, spun around with a bewildered expression on her face. All eyes were on me, all wondering what had just prompted my outburst. I didn't even try to disguise my contempt.
“You made the mess, Dovey. You clean it up."
I never meant to humiliate Blanche, though I think I did. There was no way to recover from it. No matter how you look at it, Blanche had just received two direct orders and neither of us considered what a horrible position they put her in.
“I don't mind helpin', Miz Ora," she said after a moment of awkward silence.
“Neither do I," I said as I dropped out of the assembly line and followed Blanche to the closet.
I could hear murmuring behind me as the women resumed their tasks, but I never worried or even wondered what they were talking about. Good, I thought. Let them figure it out for themselves. Dovey joined us in the clean up and we silently mopped and swept and wiped away the evidence of our mistake.
Blanche never wore a uniform again. When I asked her not to, she did not ask why. In her usual candid way, she said simply, "I can change my clothes, Miz Ora, but I can't change my color. They's always gonna be people who expect what they expect."
“You're absolutely right, Blanche," I nodded. “And I can't change anyone's expectations but my own."