The Pecan Man(45)

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."





Twenty-six





After Patrice went away to college, the girls rode the bus to my house every day after school. Neither Blanche nor I would even dream of having them stay home alone. Re'Netta and Danita excelled in school, just as their older sister had. Grace did not do as well. Blanche would often get notes home saying Grace had trouble staying focused and on task in the classroom. When she entered the third grade, she was assigned to a trim, pretty, blonde teacher named Miss Folsom. Grace liked her well enough at first, but she began to withdraw after the first few weeks of school.

Blanche asked her what was wrong, but Grace would only say things like, “Miss Folsom got mad at me today." Or “I don't think Miss Folsom likes me."

Blanche was obviously not happy, but she didn't say anything about it until Grace came home in tears with a note for “The Parents of Grace Lowery."

Miss Folsom was apparently at her wit's end, and I'm using the term “wit" rather loosely here, because Grace could not seem to finish her work in class. Her solution, according to the note, was to send Grace to the principal's office to be paddled for her offense.

“The very idea," I nearly shouted, “of paddling a child for not finishing the outlining of simple letters when she can already read a book, is absolutely asinine."

“She can't be disrupting the class, though," Blanche reasoned.

“Disrupting the class?" I exploded. “It doesn't say a word about disrupting the class. It says she's not finishing her work. It says she has been separated from the class by a dividing screen and moved away from the window so she won't be distracted or inclined to daydream. It doesn't say anywhere that she's bothering anyone at all. This is wrong, Blanche. This is not Grace's fault."

I felt so protective of Grace, in that moment and for years afterward, that I literally trembled with anger.

“What do you think I should do, then?" Blanche asked.

“Well, for one thing, I think you should make it clear that Grace will certainly not be spanked for something she has no control over."

“But she's got to finish her work," Blanche said.

“I agree," I said, “but it won't help her a bit to be frightened into finishing it. For God's sake, Blanche, hasn't she been through enough?"