State Fair (33 page)

Jesus, please protect my family and my foolish self,
I prayed.

We swung by my house to pick up Scout and call Daddy. I explained what had just happened to me and Aunt Garnet, about this guy’s vague threats.

“If you were twelve, I swear I’d restrict you,” Daddy said. “You call Gabe about this?”

“Not yet,” I said, leaving it at that. I’d tell my husband later. “It’s probably nothing, you know. I’m probably just being dramatic.”

“Not the first time,” Daddy said. “Don’t worry, we’re armed out here. You watch out for you and Garnet.”

“I will.”

I took Scout over to Emory and Elvia’s, explaining what happened. While Aunt Garnet went upstairs with Elvia to meet Sophie Lou, Emory and I stood on his wide front porch and discussed what to do.

“You will stay here tonight,” Emory said.

“No argument there. I set the burglar alarm at home. I’m sure everything will be okay.”

“Nevertheless, I’m calling Jim Cleary and telling him that they need to keep a close watch on your house tonight.” He slipped his arm around my shoulders. For a moment, I rested against his solid body. “Have you called Gabe?”

I looked out over his deep emerald yard at the lavender blue “Sterling Silver” rosebushes covered with blossoms. “When he’s traveling we always talk at ten p.m. because he’s usually back in his hotel room by then. I’ll tell him tonight.”

Emory laughed and rapped his knuckles on the back of my head. “He’s gonna kill you.”

“You don’t have to sound so gleeful. It wasn’t
my
idea to go to the car lot. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

“Good luck with that one, sweetcakes. For the record, our guest room is open for as long as you might need it.”

Twenty minutes later, after a quick trip to Stern’s Bakery, Aunt Garnet and I were pulling up in front of Flory Jackson’s two-story house. So far, we’d seen no suspicious activity, so I was coming to the conclusion that the skinhead’s threats were, at least for now, empty words.

Flory Jackson’s red and white Victorian home was located in one of San Celina’s oldest neighborhoods and was called “the Peppermint Stick House” by the dozens of foster kids that she’d cared for over the last forty years. It was as unique as her African-style crazy quilts. Her baby quilts, a popular item in the folk art museum gift shop, were made in traditional crazy-quilt fashion with velvets and lots of embroidery, but they also incorporated bold-colored batik fabric and symbols from African folk legends. She was an originating member of the Ebony Sisters Quilting Guild. Her school visitations promoting African American quilts and history were a favorite among local teachers.

By the number of cars parked on the street and in her driveway, it appeared that Aunt Garnet and I were the last to arrive.

“Hey, Flory,” I said, when she opened her white front door. “I’ve got the sugar to keep us going.” I held up two pink bakery boxes.

“Then, come on in,” Flory said. “The ladies are already stuffing and sewing.” Her soft black hair was pulled up in a twist, held secure by a hair comb made of tiny, rainbow-colored ribbons. She wore a butter yellow and rust caftan that brought out the gold flecks in her eyes.

I moved to the side to let Aunt Garnet enter first. “Flory, this is my aunt, Garnet Wilcox, from Sugartree, Arkansas.”

Flory took Aunt Garnet’s hands in hers. “Mrs. Wilcox, it is a pleasure to finally meet Dove’s baby sister. I’ve heard so much about you. All good, of course.”

Aunt Garnet’s uncomfortable expression relaxed a little with Flory’s words. I couldn’t help wondering what Dove had really told Flory about Aunt Garnet.

We followed Flory down a long hallway with wood floors buffed to a high shine to a large, airy family room. Eight women, all from the Ebony Sisters quilt guild, were busy with some task pertaining to doll-making. A huge burst of laughter greeted us when we entered the room. I glanced over at Aunt Garnet who hesitated at the doorway.

“Don’t mind them, Mrs. Wilcox,” Flory said, drawing Aunt Garnet into the room decorated with quilts, African tribal masks and two impressionistic paintings of black women carrying red baskets on their heads. “May I get you something to drink?”

“Please, call me Garnet,” my aunt said. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Why, I surely will, Garnet.” Flory returned her smile. “Ladies, this is Garnet, Benni’s aunt. She’s Dove’s sister, visiting from Arkansas.”

The women called out greetings and Flory quickly introduced them—Muriel, D’Arbry, Arnell, Florene, Lizbit and Bettie. Katsy and Maggie sat at two sewing machines in the corner sewing tiny dresses and shirts.

“I promise there will be no pop quiz,” Flory said to Aunt Garnet.

“Praise the Lord,” my aunt answered, laughing. “I have trouble remembering my own name these days.”

“I hear you, Sister Garnet,” Arnell said. “You come on over and sit next to me. I’ve got
all
the good gossip.”

“She means she causes all the good gossip,” Florene cracked.

Comfortable laugher rippled through the room.

“At least I have a life,” Arnell said. “You don’t have nothin’ interesting enough in your life to cause any gossip.” She pointed a blue crochet hook at Florene and gave a dramatic sniff.

“They are sisters by blood,” Flory said in a stage whisper to Aunt Garnet.

“And they fight like two polecats in a burlap bag,” D’Arbry added.

Aunt Garnet smiled. “I understand. My sister and I have our moments.”

Flory nodded knowingly, then turned to me. “Let me help Garnet start on some dolls. Jazz is in the kitchen making lemonade and sweet tea.”

I held up the bakery boxes. “I’ll take these cookies in and help her get the refreshments ready.”

She smiled at me. “Lovely. So, Garnet,” I heard her say, “would you prefer working on bodies, clothes or faces?”

Inside her large yellow and white country kitchen decorated in a chicken and egg theme, I found Jazz stirring a pitcher of pale pink lemonade.

“Flory sent me in here to give you a hand.” I set the bakery boxes down on the counter. “Do you know where she keeps her platters?”

“On top of the refrigerator,” Jazz said. She wore tight blue jeans, a lacy black tank top and five strands of turquoise and black beads. “We have tons to do tonight.”

“Yeah, we do,” I said, reaching for a platter. “But it’s great that the dolls are selling so well.”

She opened the bakery box. “Chocolate macaroons and lemon squares! My favorites!” She took a macaroon and bit into it. “I love the fair, but I’ll be glad when it’s over. Dad’s a train wreck.”

I placed the large yellow Fiestaware platter on the butcher-block counter. “Did the police check out the graffiti on your back door?”

She started arranging cookies on the platter. “That sheriff friend of yours came by with some other cops. Took some pictures and stuff. Dad paid the kid next door to paint over it. The police asked us some questions, like if we heard anything. It’s probably those freaks Cal hung out with when he was younger. I think they killed him, but your friend is totally ignoring me.” She shrugged, acting blasé, but her bottom lip trembled.

I started helping her arrange cookies on the platter. I seriously doubted that Hud was ignoring her information. He just didn’t like giving away his suspicions. “Be careful.”

“Like, duh, Benni. Of course I’m careful.”

“I know it sounds lame, but I just couldn’t think of what else to say.”

She flattened the empty box, then opened the second one. “No worries. I know you’re only trying to help.”

We took the platter of cookies, some glasses and the pitchers of lemonade and sweet tea to the family room. We set the snacks on the square glass coffee table bisecting two seven-foot brown leather sofas.

“Ladies, help yourselves whenever you need a break,” Flory said. She indicated a place next to Muriel. “Benni, would you like to stuff bodies?”

“Sounds a little weird,” I said, laughing, “but sure.”

She handed me a stack of doll bodies, a red crochet needle and a big bag of stuffing. “Pack them firm, but not tight, then pass them to Arnell. She’s stitching them up.”

Flory had everything organized, with people stuffing bodies, sewing up their backs, sewing on buttons for eyes, finishing dresses and pants or stitching on hair. “If we finish everything we’ve brought tonight,” she announced, “we’ll have thirty more dolls to sell.”

We set to work, stopping only momentarily to use the bathroom, nibble at a cookie or sip a drink. It seemed the faster everyone worked, the faster they talked. Aunt Garnet and I listened while the Sisters covered everything from fried chicken to church revivals, chubby babies to the definition of “good” hair.

“Did you see Ruthie Lee’s hair last Sunday?” Florene asked, shaking her head. “She ought not to press it herself. There she was sitting in front of me at church and I watched the kinks exploding like popcorn all over her head. Someone needs to hide that hot comb and tell that girl to get herself to a professional hairdresser.”

“Now, Florene,” Arnell said. “You know she’s been having hard times. Probably can’t afford to go to the beauty parlor.”

“Still and all,” Florene said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a coffin wearing hair that was tryin’ to get back home.”

“I know that’s right,” Reba said.

“A beauty shop don’t always do the trick,” Muriel said, touching her smooth, pecan-colored bob. “There’s days when my hair looks good for about five minutes after I leave Bobbi’s Coiffures, but then”—she snapped her fingers—“my kitchen goes right on back home.”

The women in the room roared with laughter. Aunt Garnet and I smiled, not understanding the joke. But never one to be shy when I didn’t understand something, I turned to Muriel. “I don’t get it.”

She patted my knee with her warm hand. “You wouldn’t, sweet pea. The kitchen is what us black ladies call the nape of the neck. On many of us, the hair there curls in little balls and depending on how kinky your hair is it can be a big pain in the patootie, especially when it’s hot and humid.”

“Thank the good Lord for San Celina weather,” Florene said. “My hair’s a dream here. But when I go back home to Alabama . . .” She shook her head. “Don’t miss that humid air one little bit.”

“I’m a witness,” Bettie said. “It’s the same in Georgia.” The other women murmured in agreement.

I glanced over at Aunt Garnet, whose expression was thoughtful but interested. The only time I’d seen her around any black people in all the years I’d visited Arkansas with Dove was when she talked to Miss DeLora, the housekeeper who’d raised Emory, and that was usually to ask for a recipe or a way to get a stubborn stain out of Uncle WW’s gray Dickies work clothes.

“Did you see Rolanda’s hair at the Parker wedding last Saturday?” said Muriel. “Oh my, but she’s got a beautiful head of hair. Thick as three ropes and smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Arnell gave a cynical snort. “She might have good hair, but that woman needs some makeup lessons. She wears that orange lipstick like it’s going out of style on a west-bound train.”

The women laughed again, with me and Aunt Garnet joining in this time. All women understood about someone wearing too much makeup.

Jazz, silent during the conversation, suddenly blurted out, “Why
do
you all talk so much about hair? What’s the big deal?”

The room went silent for a moment, the women looking at each other, furrowed eyebrows communicating their discomfort. Jazz’s light brown hair was as smooth as Malibu Barbie’s.

Flory was the first one to answer her. “Well, Jazz, I guess you could say it’s a cultural thing with African American women. Something that binds us together because it’s a common dilemma.” She tilted her head, considering her words. “No,
dilemma
is not the correct word, because there’s nothing
wrong
with our hair. It’s just that it’s one of the things we can commiserate about with each other that others . . .” She glanced at me and smiled. “Those who don’t have our type of hair just don’t have the same problems. It would be a little like you talking with your friends about how we older folks don’t understand your music.”

Arnell picked up one of my stuffed dolls and proceeded to finish off the opening in the back with tiny perfect stitches. “Speaking of music. What’s with that Vanilla Ice fella? Is he a white boy trying to act black or a black boy who just happens to be white?”

“Arnell,” Florene said, laughing behind her hand. “You are a caution.”

“Seriously,” Jazz said. “This hair thing bugs me sometimes. I’ve heard you all talk about me having ‘good’ hair. Why do you say that—good hair? Hair is hair. I think it’s ridiculous to judge people by what is really just dead cells growing out of your head.” Her statement caused a few of the ladies to touch their hairdos, some of which were straightened, some left natural.

“You know, Cal and I talked about stuff like this a lot,” she continued. The mention of the murdered boy’s name caused the room to go quiet. “People judge other people by such stupid things like who your parents are, what color your skin is, what your hair is like. Our hair shouldn’t matter. Our skin color shouldn’t matter.” She looked down at the doll she was stuffing. The fabric was three shades darker than her coffee-with-cream skin. “He was probably killed because he was dating someone with skin a few shades darker than his and I think that sucks. And I think everyone contributes to that. Both sides are . . . they should . . .” Her words faltered.

All the women’s eyes were on her, their faces such a mix of emotions that I couldn’t tell what was going to happen. It was like watching a movie scene, observing this young girl confront the black side of her heritage, call them out on a cultural habit she found troubling and confusing. How would these ladies react?

Flory walked over to Jazz and sat down next to her on the sofa. Like all of the women in this room, Flory was an adult during the civil rights era of the sixties. These women had likely experienced prejudice in ways that Jazz would never encounter. But I didn’t see resentment on Flory’s face, no bitterness toward this young girl who didn’t completely understand what the generation before her suffered for her father and mother’s right to marry and create her.