The Pecan Man(5)

"My Lord, Blanche, you never said a word about that.”

“Wasn’t much to say,” she said and shrugged. “Marcus, couldn’t have bought it anyway.”

“Too much?” I asked.

Blanche looked at me like I had two heads.

“Yeah, Miz Ora, that’s it,” she said, “It cost too much.”

Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on me, but I was too exhausted to pursue it further. I poured a glass of tea and headed for my porch, leaving Blanche to deal with the groceries.

Within a month or two, I had my shopping excursions down to two hours every other week. I grew to appreciate the fact that I could get pantyhose AND medicine in the same store where I bought chicken legs. I wondered why I hadn't tried this before. Blanche reminded me about old dogs and new tricks when I said that out loud. Sometimes I wonder why I kept her around all those years.

September 24th. I'll remember that date for as long as I live. That was the day that really set this thing into motion.

I came home from the Winn Dixie to find Blanche sitting in my recliner, clutching her youngest child Grace to her chest. The child was sleeping, but I could see muddy streaks of tears that had dried on her face. Blanche's face was still wet, though the only sound that came from her mouth was the song she was singing soft and low to her baby girl.

"What in the world..." My voice trailed off as I dropped the sacks I carried to the floor. "Blanche, what has happened?"

I heard someone clear his throat behind me and turned to see the cab driver with an armload of groceries.

"Oh...yes...set them down here. Are there any more?"

He nodded as he put the grocery bags on the seat of the hall tree next to the door. Blanche still had not looked up or altered her low singing. I followed the cab driver out, paid what I owed and took the last of the groceries from his arms. I tottered back into the house and set the paper bags on the dining room table.

Blanche still hadn't responded to my question. She just kept up her soft crooning while a tiny river of tears ran down her cheeks. I knelt beside the chair and quietly laid both my hands on her arm.

"Blanche. What is it? Tell me what happened."

She didn’t respond, but began to whimper softly.

"Blanche, it's all right now. It's all right."

"It ain't all right, Miss Ora. It ain't all right and it ain't never gonna be all right."

Grace stirred in her mama's arms and Blanche held her tighter and rocked harder in the chair.

"What’s not all right, Blanche? What happened? Lord, please tell me what happened."

But Blanche did not respond. She closed her eyes and rocked her child.

I suddenly felt faint. In all the time Blanche had worked for me I had never seen her cry. I kicked off my shoes and went to the kitchen. I could still hear Blanche's rhythmic rocking and the soft, sad tune she hummed to her baby girl.

A pitcher of tea and two glasses were already out on the counter. Blanche had apparently been anticipating my return. I cracked a tray of ice and winced as the ice cubes hit the insides of the glasses.

Too loud, I thought.

The cubes cracked again as I poured the warm tea over them. I took a long drink from one of the glasses and took the other to Blanche. Her shoulders pulsed up and down as if she were bouncing Grace like an infant with colic, but as I approached I saw that the shaking was caused by the deep, silent sobs Blanche was trying to control. I set the tea down on the lamp table beside the chair, then leaned over and reached for the child.

“Let me have her, Blanche.”

I’d never heard my own voice sound like that - low, firm and commanding. Blanche responded by rolling Grace even tighter to her bosom.

“Give her to me, Blanche.”

“She too heavy for you, Miss Ora. Jes’ let me hol’ her here a while. Then I’ll get up and put those groceries away.”

“For crying out loud, Blanche. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the groceries! The child’s exhausted. I’m going to put her to bed, and then you are going to tell me what happened so we can figure out what to do about it.”

“Ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. Nothin’ a’tall.”

I reached down again and lifted Grace into my arms. Blanche didn’t try to stop me this time. I was surprised at how tiny the child felt, not heavy at all. I’d never held her before.

Grace took a shuddering breath, but stayed asleep as I carried her down the hall to the guest bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the window on the west wall and fell on the child’s face as I bent to pull back the covers. I stopped and stared at her for a moment.

I put her in bed and removed her patent leather shoes and ruffled socks. I saw the streak of blood then, already turning brown and blending into the black scuffs of dirt and grass stains on the once white cotton. Gracie’s skin was dark like her mama’s, and it took a moment to realize that her legs were covered in the same dirt and scuffs and, though I could see no open wounds on her body, blood. It lay in streaks down the insides of her thin, baby legs. I covered them then, willing myself not to see what I was seeing. My soft white sheets and pink chenille spread had never suppressed such offense and I would never look at them again without remembering.

I drew the shades and stopped at the door to look back at the sleeping child. I hadn’t felt angry until that moment, only concern and confusion. But, as I stood there watching Blanche’s precious child sleep, fury churned in my stomach and spread its heat through my chest and down my arms. I didn’t feel my fingernails cut into the palms of my hands as I clenched and unclenched my fists, but I saw the marks later and knew exactly when it happened.