I Still Dream About You: A Novel (30 page)

Miss Pitcock was one of the unsung heroines of the world; she had quietly devoted her entire life to helping thousands of struggling teenagers (like Maggie) find their way through the maze of the library archives, and now she was doing it again. God bless her, thought Maggie.

After that, true to her word, Miss Pitcock sent Maggie a little information each day. She had found several photos of Edwina Crocker in a few English newspapers. There was one of her standing alone and several of her in a crowd, but never a photo of Edward and Edwina together, as Maggie had hoped; body language could tell so much. Then Maggie began to wonder why they had never been photographed together. They had spent so much time together in London. That seemed odd. What were they trying to hide? Had they just been unusually close or had it been something else? And why had neither of them ever married? She couldn’t tell Edwina’s coloring from the black-and-white photos in the paper, but she certainly looked attractive. It was a mystery all right, and as the days went by, Maggie began to feel just like Nancy Drew in
The Secret of the Scottish Twins
.

M
AGGIE HAD REALLY BEEN HOPING FOR A QUICK SALE. BUT AS THE
days dragged by, she was becoming more and more concerned. She’d had her hopes up a few weeks ago, when a nice woman who had come to an open house had loved Crestview, but today, when the husband came to see it, he had not liked the floor plan, so that was that. And to make a bad day even worse, when she got home that afternoon, Miss Pitcock had just faxed her some new information that had completely blown a hole through her entire theory about Edward Crocker and his sister, Edwina. Miss Pitcock had traced the Crocker-Sperry family’s records all the way back to Scotland and had found a photocopy of Edward’s birth certificate. There had only been one child born on that date.

To Maggie’s surprise, there was no sister at all.

According to the records, Angus Crocker and his wife had only had one child, a male named Edward. Then
who
was that woman in London, the one Edward claimed was his sister? Was it his mistress? Edward had supported her. But why hadn’t he married her? It made no sense. She looked at the photos again. To her, they looked exactly like twins. They
had
to be related in some way. Maybe she had been a cousin. But that wouldn’t make any sense either. If she was a cousin, why not say so? Maggie was completely stumped. Oh God,
now she had a headache. She went to look for an aspirin and realized she had thrown them all out a few weeks ago. So she put a cold washcloth on her forehead and lay down on the couch.

While Maggie hadn’t expected this news about Edwina, she guessed she really shouldn’t be surprised. It was the story of her life. She had also expected that Hazel would live forever, but she hadn’t.

Easter morning, about six years ago, the entire staff at Red Mountain Realty was already over in the park, hiding all the Easter eggs, and after church, Maggie had gone home with Hazel to help her get into her bunny outfit. Later, driving to the park, Hazel had been very excited. “Oh, Mags, don’t you just love Easter? Christmas is great, too, but just think, every Easter, we get a chance to rise up and start all over again. And even when you’re dead, you still keep going. Isn’t that great? Isn’t that wonderful?”

After another few minutes, she said, “You know, Mags, I’ve been thinking, since this is my favorite holiday, I’ve decided that I want to be buried in my bunny outfit, okay? Will you see to that for me?” Maggie was taken aback. It was the first time she had ever heard Hazel mention anything pertaining to sickness or death, but she said, “Well, of course, Hazel, whatever you want, though you’re a long way off from being buried.”

“Oh, I know that,” Hazel said. “I’m planning on becoming the oldest living midget in the world.”

“You are?”

“Yes, and you know me, if I set my mind to do it, I will.”

Of course, three months later, when Hazel had died so suddenly, it had been difficult when Maggie and Ethel had shown up at Johns-Ridout’s Funeral Parlor with a bunny suit on a hanger, but last wishes are last wishes.

The day of Hazel’s funeral had been a real revelation. They had expected that all the real estate people in town and all of her friends would be there, but a good hour before the service was to begin, the church was packed to the rafters with people they had never seen before. The governor and the mayor were there, as well as all the local news media; representatives from clubs, organizations, theater groups, the fire department, the police department, and all the charities
she had been involved with; and girls who had received scholarships from her. Plus, members from chapters of the Little People of America from all over the country had shown up. They said everybody at the Birmingham airport had nearly had a fit as each plane landed and all these little people came piling off by the busloads, all going to Hazel’s funeral. So many people came that hundreds had to stand outside the church and listen to the service on loudspeakers. As the preacher said, “It was a big turnout for such a little lady.” Even Ethel, who had known her better than anyone, had been surprised at the number of people’s lives Hazel had touched. That day, they heard stories about money she had lent and time she had devoted to people and causes she had never mentioned.

Poor Little Harry had been completely devastated by the loss. He had not even been able to come up with something for her tombstone. What could you possibly say about someone who had been your entire life? Ethel stepped in and took over and said as simply as possible:

Hazel Elaine Whisenknott
1924–2003
Gone but Not Forgotten

Little Harry left for Milwaukee two days after the funeral and never came back to Birmingham again. The office kept in touch through his family, but they said all he did now was sit in his room. Maggie understood how he felt. They all missed that three-foot-four dynamo ball of energy, that silly little funhouse of a human being who had kept them amused and entertained, who had pumped them up, lifted their spirits, driven them crazy, but, most of all, had made them feel special. Hazel had been that one in a million who seemed to have come out of the womb and hit the ground running; one of those rare human beings who only comes along once in a blue moon.

D
RIVING BACK TO THE OFFICE FROM LUNCH, BRENDA WAS IN A RARE
reflective mood. She said, “You know, Maggie, when I was young, I used to want to be white, but not anymore. Ask me why.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then why did you want me to ask you?”

“Well … because … I’m trying to figure it out. It didn’t happen during the Black Is Beautiful thing or when Obama was elected; it’s even more recent than that.”

“Really.”

“Yes, and I’m thinking that Oprah and Queen Latifah had a lot to do with it … I mean, if they don’t mind being big and black … then
I
don’t mind, you know?”

“I can understand that.”

“And guess what else?”

“What?”

“I’m beginning to like being a little plump; what do you think about that?”

“I think it’s great. You know all that’s important is that you’re healthy.”

They drove a few more blocks.

“Maggie, I never told anybody this, but during the sixties, when all the marches and sit-ins were going on, with all the name-calling and the misery we had to go through, I sometimes used to wonder if it was even worth it. But not anymore.”

“No?”

“No. I feel a lot better about everything now, because if you think about it, I’m really kind of in style these days. Lord, who would have ever thought it, but I guess that’s what happens when you live long enough. Just think, not more than fifty years ago, most black women in Birmingham couldn’t hope to be more than somebody’s maid, and now one is getting ready to run for mayor.”

“That’s right,” said Maggie. “The world has changed.”

“Yeah, it’s hard for me to believe but … I guess now with Obama being elected, black is the new white.”

“It would seem so, honey.”

Brenda then looked out the window and sighed, “I just wish I could get back all those years when I felt so bad about myself. I just wish …” She didn’t finish her sentence, and tears rolled down her face. She said, “Life is so hard sometimes.”

Maggie reached over and put her hand on Brenda’s arm. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Oh, Maggie, you just don’t know how bad it feels to have people who don’t even know you hate you, and for something you had nothing to do with.”

Maggie started to tell Brenda something that she had never told anyone, but decided not to. But she did know how it felt. She knew exactly how it felt.

Brenda was right, of course; people of color were very much in style now, and as Ethel said, at the slow rate whites (particularly Presbyterians) were reproducing, she wouldn’t be surprised if in fifty years, they would be the new minority. If that were to happen, Maggie wondered if there would be a White History Month on A&E to celebrate all the old customs and featuring native dishes like tomato aspic, chocolate mousse, and dinner rolls. She hoped they would get their own month, or at least a week.

B
RENDA, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE WHO HAD FOUGHT SEGREGATION
, still had bad memories of things that had happened, not directly to her, but to other members of her family and to friends. After college, full of idealism, she had moved to Chicago to work as a teacher in the inner city. But most of her students raised in the projects at Cabrini-Green had seen too much too soon, and by the time she got them, she looked out on a room full of dead eyes. She tried so hard to reach them and thought she had helped a few of the girls but then, a few years later, she would drive by and see them working on a street corner, strung out on drugs. It was a heartbreaking experience. Having grown up in a nice middle-class neighborhood, she had not been prepared to deal with the harsh realities of kids who had been raised in the tough ghettos of the North. And that last year, when one of her students had pulled a gun on her after she had refused to let her go out in the hall to hang out with her boyfriend, she’d known it was time to quit. Like a lot of her friends who had moved north, she missed home, and when things eased up, they all started coming back to Birmingham. It wasn’t perfect. Just like everywhere else, there were still stupid people around, black and white. Unfortunately for Brenda, three of the stupid people happened to be her nephews Curtis, DeWayne, and Anthony.

When she was growing up, her heroes had been people like Sojourner Truth, Thurgood Marshall, and Martin Luther King, but the nephews had their walls plastered with pictures of their favorite rap stars. Every one with a police record a mile long.

At present, all three nephews were strutting around town, sporting gold chains and diamond earrings, wearing baseball hats perched sideways on top of do-rags, with their underwear sticking out of baggy pants. Their grandparents and parents had been college graduates, but all three had dropped out of high school at fifteen and now, between them, they couldn’t string a sentence together. If they said, “You know what I’m sayin’ ” one more time, she would scream. Instead of going forward, they had gone backward.