The Pecan Man(27)

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?”