The Pecan Man(29)

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.





Fifteen





The girls had a ball retrieving my decorations from the attic that night after supper. In fact, they found a good bit more than just decorations. It had been years since I had climbed the narrow steps to my attic, but the girls would not have it but that I join them there to see the treasures they had found.

A cedar chest full of my grandmother’s old clothes and my mother’s wedding dress lay in one corner. One box held a variety of crocheted doilies and embroidered handkerchiefs and other various tablecloths and linens. There was an entire stack of hatboxes and a hall tree sporting a half dozen more hats on its hooks. Another box held scrapbooks full of pictures dating to the late 1800s. My wedding album was there and I sat down at my mother’s old dressing table to look through the evidence of my innocent hope. In one picture, I sat in an ornate chair, smiling up over my shoulder at Walter with an expression of unabashed adoration on my face. He was returning my gaze with a beguiled grin of his own.

Funny, I hadn’t remembered adoring Walter like that. Nor did I remember him ever being particularly captivated by me. As I sat there in my attic, with three little girls busily rooting through and trying on various costumes of another era, I wondered if time had so altered my memory that I had forgotten such things as love, or if pictures did indeed tell the story.

I finally dragged the girls away from their plunder by promising hot chocolate while we decorated the tree. I also assured them we’d return to the attic to play at some later date.

Patrice, sufficiently recovered from the afternoon trauma, washed the dishes and made the cocoa while Blanche rested in Walter’s recliner and watched our festive doings. Blanche would normally have gone home much earlier, but it was Friday and the girls wouldn’t have to go to school the next day, so we were all carried away with our merriment. Before we knew it, the clock chimed eleven times and we looked at each other in amazement. Blanche was snoring softly from the chair and Grace had fallen asleep on the couch, but the rest of us were still going strong when we put on the last ornament, a brightly lit angel to adorn the treetop.