Blanche Among the Talented Tenth (Blanche White series Book 2) Read online

  Blanche hurried across the pavement after the can that rolled from the bag and snagged it. She scooped up the remaining two boxes and turned to the woman she’d nearly knocked off her feet.

  “Sorry about that. I…”

  The woman looked as though Blanche had caught her farting at the dinner table. She brushed back her hair. Her eyes flicked back and forth between Blanche’s face and the items Blanche was holding out to her. Blanche looked down at the box of Rebirth Conditioner and Relaxer, the Straight and Swingy Permanent Renewal Kit, and the large can of EverHold hair spray. She was surprised such black products were available in this very white part of the world. Of course, Amber Coveites probably spent a lot of money in this village.

  The woman reached up and brushed back her hair again. With her sandy-blond hair and old ivory skin, Blanche had thought the woman was white; a closer look revealed that some of that lack of color was due to skillfully applied makeup that made her face a shade or two lighter than her arms. She had the kind of wavy and shoulder length, kink-free hair many little black girls would kill their Barbie dolls for, even today. But apparently she was getting some help with that. Blanche stared at the woman, caught in one of those moments in which the barrier between her and another human being seemed to momentarily drop; and she was able to see and understand with her gut, her heart, and her bones. Poor thing, she thought. At the same time, she wanted to laugh at this silly woman made uncomfortable because someone she didn’t know now knew she used chemicals to give her hair that white-girl look.

  “Thank you.” The woman snatched her purchases and hurried around the corner. Blanche wondered if she might actually be trying to pass for white.

  She tried to imagine having that choice and taking it. She could picture herself a hundred shades lighter with her facial features sharpened; but she couldn’t make the leap to wanting to step out of the talk, walk, music, food, and feeling of being black that the white world often imitated but never really understood. She realized how small a part her complexion played in what it meant to her to be black.

  She chose cards with ocean and lighthouse scenes and went back to her room. She ate her chicken sandwich and a pear and drank some water. She fiddled around with her room, changing the angle of the armchair, moving the bed lamp closer to the bed, and putting the ashtrays in a drawer. But she hadn’t really had her fill of out-of-doors.

  This time she took the path that skirted the beach side of the Inn and ran across the wide expanse of tree-dotted lawn on the other side of the Inn.

  There was a wide elevated, semicircular terrace on this side. Stairs led down from the terrace to the lawn of deep-green grass, flower beds, and large, old trees. The terrace and the lawn were dotted with tables sprouting striped umbrellas from their middles, some chaises and chairs. A low stone wall separated the lawn from the rocky beach beyond. Blanche took a deep breath of sea-tinged air and tried to give her whole attention to the cause of that scent. The sight of the sea buoyed her. No matter what else happened the sea was there, and the trees and birds and flowers. She’d suck all the joy out of them that she could, despite the Arthur Hills and strange light-skinned women of the world. She walked diagonally across the grounds toward the beach.

  A dark, portly man sat at a table on the lawn. He held a folded newspaper. An auburn-haired, freckled woman lay in a nearby chaise lounge reading a magazine. A tilted umbrella protected her from the sun. Neither of them looked up and Blanche didn’t pass close enough to them to feel she needed to speak. Four or five other people lolled in umbrellaed chairs closer to the water. A woman jogged toward her in a shiny bright blue jogging suit, her male companion a few steps behind. Blanche nodded a “hello,” first to the woman and then to the man. The woman had a blinking fit but recovered and returned Blanche’s nod, although she didn’t make eye contact. The man’s lips lifted in a smile reminiscent of Arthur Hill’s. Oh-oh. She hoped Ardell wasn’t going to be proved right in her belief that well-off blacks were even more color prejudiced than the everyday folks who’d tormented Blanche all of her life. Of course, color wasn’t the only thing operating in a place like this. There was also the close relationship between light skin and wealth—hadn’t she read somewhere that light-skinned blacks made a dollar for every seventy-three cents dark-skinned blacks made? What else in a country that gave blue-eyed blondes the edge over other white folks? So folks here could dis her on two counts. She’d already discovered she couldn’t pass for white, even in her imagination, and she’d been around the well-to-do long enough to know that there weren’t enough expensive clothes in the world to help her pass for money. It wasn’t simply how a person dressed or talked that marked them, but how easily they assumed they were at the top of whatever pecking order might be in place—a trait that came from at least three generations of never having to be concerned about survival, and never coming in contact with need. She put on her sunglasses and walked slowly along the water’s edge, keeping just out of the reach of the cold Atlantic. Madame Rosa had told her how to approach Mother Water. That would come tomorrow morning. Now sea gulls called to each other overhead; smaller birds she didn’t recognize raced in front of her. She was glad for this time alone by the sea. She was eager to see her children, too. She still regularly longed to be her own, lone woman, but for now she was willing to have that need fulfilled by the occasional weekend when she left the kids with Cousin Charlotte, or times like now—of which there were an increasing number, she realized—when they were visiting friends from school. She took off her Keds and felt the weight of city living slip from her body like a heavy coat. This was where she needed to be, always needed to be: In the open, barefoot and totally sure that she, the sand, the water, and the wind were one. She tried to remember this in the city, to live as though her life was not bound by dirty streets, low pay, filthy air, and dangerous traffic, to remember she was as much a part of this green and blue world as she was of her day-to-day grind, but it often required more optimism than she could muster. She took every opportunity she could to get out of Boston. She hadn’t lived in the city long enough to know much about the place. What she had learned reeked of racism and political back-scratching in the white community. In the black community there seemed to be a lot of ministers mainly interested in being associated with city hall or Harvard and having their pictures in the paper. She’d met a couple of like-minded women and was beginning to think this was all the good she was going to find in Boston.

  One of the worst things about the place was the way racist neighborhoods surrounded and claimed the city’s beaches. She’d braved South Boston once, but the hostile air had diluted her connection to the sea so greatly it hadn’t been worth her time, and the beach had been so dirty, it felt desecrated. She wondered if her recurring dream had anything to do with the frustration of living near the ocean but unable to communicate with it.

  She walked the rocky beach until she reached a bunch of boulders, some higher than a tall man, others half submerged and moss-covered—like shaggy dogs digging in the sand. She found a sunny, secluded spot among the rocks and sat. A gold trail of sunlight made a sea path to the horizon. She leaned against the boulder behind her and cleared her mind of everything except what she could see before her. The sun seeped into her veins. She felt it coursing through her like a shot of corn liquor—hot and burning in her chest, exploding its warmth out to the tips of her toes and fingers and the top of her head. The breeze evaporated the sweat beading on her forehead. She let her shoulders droop, then melt beneath the sun. She thought about people who worshipped the sun and saw how much sense that made. Her eyelids drooped. She willed herself to stay awake to enjoy the sun blazing through her, but she was already half asleep. A woman’s voice from the other side of the boulder brought her fully awake.

  “She was a meddlesome, vicious bitch and I hope she’s rotting in hell as we speak.”

  “Carol, don’t talk like that, please!” a man responded.

&nb
sp; “Oh, have I shocked your sensibilities?” Carol said. “That’s pretty funny under the circumstances.”

  A lighter flicked two or three times, then the smell of cigarette smoke before Carol continued. “Well, if Faith had had her way, you’d have plenty to offend your sensibilities. That bitch was about to tatter them beyond recognition.”

  “Don’t talk tough, Carol. You know how I hate that.”

  “Honest to God, Hank! Try to stay in the real world.” Carol’s voice was sharp as Hank’s was soft. It grew clearer and harder as she went on. “I can see why those white academic boys have you on the run! They’d have turned you into Jesse Owens once Faith got the word out. You must be as glad she’s dead as I am. But even now you can’t admit it!”

  Blanche felt the mini-earthquake that statement caused.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Carol sounded as though she meant it. Blanche had a feeling she had a lot of practice saying it. Carol went on in a different vein, a more thoughtful tone: “Maybe none of this would have happened if we hadn’t sat around for years watching Faith do to other people what she would have done to us, if…”

  “If? There is no ‘if,’ Carol. It’s too late for that.” For the first time, there was heat in Hank’s voice. “And I told you never to mention…”

  “I only meant if she hadn’t died, Hank. If she hadn’t died. That’s all I meant.” Carol’s voice was a damper for the fire in Hank’s voice.

  There was a long, tense silence in which the smell of cigarette smoke grew stronger. When Hank next spoke, all the anger was gone from his voice, replaced by what sounded to Blanche like tiredness beyond words.

  “Let’s not fight, Carol. Not now, not about this. It’s all over now. Everything will be fine. Just fine. I’m going to make everything all right. I promise you.”

  Blanche felt, rather than heard the embrace that accompanied Hank’s words. The two of them emerged from behind the boulders and walked hand in hand toward the Inn. Blanche pressed herself against the boulder and willed them not to turn around. When she felt it was safe, she leaned forward and took a look. Carol walked like a woman comfortable in and in control of her body—something about the confident set of her shoulders and the way she swung her legs. Her hips were broad below her small waist. She wore a long skirt over a top that could have been a leotard. Her skin was a buttery yellow. A single thick braid hung to the middle of her back. Hank was just her height—no more than five ten. He was thick everywhere, from his block head to his large squared-off calves. While Blanche watched, he raised his arm and settled it across Carol’s shoulders. She put her arm around his waist for a moment, then they helped each other over the stone fence between the beach and the lawn. Blanche gathered this information in small bits, careful not to stare too long. When she took her final look, they’d disappeared.

  Blanche took her time walking back to the Inn. She replayed the conversation she’d just heard and smiled. If this was the way people talked about each other here, even after they were dead, she might be in for a more interesting time than she’d thought. A real-life soap! The only kind that held her interest. She wondered who the dead woman was and what put that quiver in Hank’s voice.

  There were three cottages on this side of the Inn, too. She could hear music coming from one of them. The couple she’d seen jogging earlier now jogged past her going in the opposite direction. Both of them developed a sudden interest in looking out to sea as they approached her.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to speak to you again!” Blanche hissed at them and laughed when they both jumped. As the sun moved toward setting, a cool breeze had blown up. She decided to check out the bar. She climbed the stairs to the terrace.

  The woman who reminded her of Old Queen Somebody or Another was sitting on the terrace reading a book.

  “Have you read this?” The woman asked as Blanche passed her chair. She held up a copy of Deal with the Devil and Other Reasons to Riot, by Pearl Cleage. “It’s damned good!” the woman told her. “Good black feminist work!” She gave Blanche a sharp, direct once over. “Blanche White, isn’t it?” She smiled at Blanche’s look of surprise. “I looked at the register. I had to know the name of anyone who could put little Arthur in his place with a look and a change in tone. I’m Mattie Harris. I’d have spoken when you arrived, but I find it unwise to stop mid-sketch.” The woman held out her hand. Blanche shook it with pleasure. She liked inquisitive people. She knew right off that she and this woman had that in common. She decided to show her respect with a gift of information.

  “My children are staying with the Crowleys. I came up to give Christine and David a break.”

  “Ah, yes. Charming children. Good people, the Crowleys.” Mattie paused. “Shall we have a drink? I could use a bit of chat.” Mattie didn’t wait for Blanche to reply. Despite her obvious years, she rose from the low armchair with a smooth grace and preceded Blanche to the bar. She carried a wooden walking stick with a silver snake winding round it. Two red stones glinted in the eye sockets of the head, which was also the handle. Mattie might as well have twirled it for all she used it for support. Mattie Harris. Hadn’t she heard that name somewhere? They moved to the bar and sat in leather club chairs around a low table.

  The bartender picked up a bottle of liquor, a squat glass, and a carbonated water dispenser before she approached them.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Harris,” There was genuflection in the young woman’s voice. She let a few seconds pass between Mattie’s acknowledging nod and asking Blanche what she wanted. She seemed to be having a hard time taking her eyes off Mattie’s face. She poured Mattie a large Springback single malt and added a splash of water before she went off to fetch Blanche’s gin and tonic. She returned with Blanche’s drink and a large sectioned bowl of peanuts, miniature pretzels, and tiny fish-shaped crackers.

  “What’s your name, honey?” Blanche asked.

  The young woman looked startled. “Glenda, ma’am, Glenda Morris.” The smile reached her eyes.

  “I’m Blanche White. Have one on me, Glenda.”

  “Thank you, Miss White.”

  “Blanche.” Blanche winked at the young woman before turning back to her companion.

  Mattie bowed in Blanche’s direction. “An egalitarian, too.”

  Blanche wondered what the “too” was about.

  Mattie picked up her glass, but her eyes were on Blanche. “You have the look of the Caribbean about you, Blanche. Are your people islanders?”

  Ah, the third degree continues, Blanche smiled to herself. “You look like you might have steel drums in your blood, too, Mattie. Are your people from the islands?”

  Both women laughed.

  “Sorry. Let’s start again,” Mattie suggested. “I sometimes forget that satisfying my curiosity isn’t the major purpose of other people’s existence.” She raised her glass. “To the irony of the person who named you—although you must catch hell, Blanche White.”

  Blanche couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to her directly about the contrast between her color and her name. Giggles, shocked silences, stupid, and disdainful looks, she was accustomed to all of that, but not this. She appreciated an opportunity to talk about it to someone who could differentiate between who she was and what her family had chosen to name her.

  “Lots of people don’t get it,” she told Mattie. “People who consider themselves kind, hurry by it like it’s an ugly birthmark. Some people just ain’t smart enough to figure out how to hurt me with it. The rest get at least as good as they give.”

  “But how do you feel about it?” Mattie wanted to know.

  Blanche thought about the changes she’d been through over her name—from hating it and vowing to change it, to wearing it as evidence that she honored her people’s right to name their child what they chose, regardless of what other people thought about that choice. “It’s my na
me,” she said.

  Mattie laughed. “I knew you were my kind of woman. I could tell by the way you deflated dear Arthur. There aren’t many of our sort left, you know.”

  Blanche smiled and wondered whether this arrogant old girl would include her in “our sort” if they’d met while Blanche was cleaning her kitchen. Blanche sensed someone heading toward them. She looked over her shoulder. It was Carol, from the beach. Hank wasn’t with her.

  Carol sank into the seat on the other side of Mattie and scooped up a handful of peanuts. “I don’t know why I’ve let Hank drag me up here again! There is absolutely nothing like a dose of nature to turn me into a sedentary consuming organism. I need gasoline fumes and grit to throw me off my feed and keep me moving, otherwise I eat and drink myself into oblivion.”

  Mattie pushed the snack bowl toward her. “Carol, you’ve asked that question at least once a year every year for the last eight years.” Carol grinned and popped some peanuts into her mouth.

  “The usual, Mrs. Garrett?”

  Carol nodded to Glenda, the bartender, then turned to look at Blanche. “Has Mattie been boring you with the good old days, when women were strong and men were conveniences?”

  “That’s not my point at all, Carol, and you know it.” Mattie tapped her walking stick on the floor for emphasis. “It just seems to me that young black women today have bought a mess of pottage with all this romanticism and need to find a soul mate in order to make a marriage. What every woman needs in a man, whether she knows it or not, is a good friend, a lover, and a helpmate. In my day, women understood romance as a concept men developed to avoid life. They need it. Raw life makes men queasy and querulous, or worse, abusive. For us, husbands were for making children and building the community. Looks and sweet words didn’t enter into it. My own marriage may not have contributed to the African-American community, but I assure you, it was not entered into out of any romanticism on my part.”