The Bean Trees - Barbara Kingsolver [103]
I laughed. “You’re not elderly,” I said.
“It won’t be as long as it has been.”
“Mama, shush, don’t even say that.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me, I don’t care if I drop over tomorrow. I’m having me a time.”
“That’s good, Mama. I’m glad, I really am.”
“I’ve done quit cleaning houses. I take in some washing now and again to keep me out of trouble, but I’m getting about ready to join the Women’s Garden Club instead. The only dirt I feel like scratching in nowdays is my own. They meet of a Thursday.”
I couldn’t believe it. Mama retired. “You know what’s funny?” I said. “I just can’t picture you without an iron or a mop or something like that in your hand.”
“Oh, picture it, girl, it’s a pretty sight. You remember Mrs. Wickentot? The one always wore high heels to the grocery and thought she was the cat’s meow?”
“Yeah, I remember. Her kids never would give me the time of day. They called me the Cleaning Lady’s Girl.”
“Well you can put it to rest now, because I told her off good when I quit. I told her if I had the kind of trash she has in her closets, and the way she lets those boys run wild, what I found under their beds, I just wouldn’t act so high and mighty, is what I told her.”
“You told her that?”
“I did. And then some. All these years, you know, these ladies get to thinking they own you. That you wouldn’t dare breathe a word for fear of getting fired. Now I think they’re all scared to death I’m going to take out an ad in the paper.”
I could just see it, right on the back page under the obituaries and deed-of-trust announcements. Or better yet, on the society page:
“Alice Jean Greer Elleston wishes to announce that Irma Ruebecker has fifty-two pints of molded elderberry jelly in her basement; Mae Richey’s dishes would be carried off by the roaches if she didn’t have hired help; and Minerva Wickentot’s boys read porno magazines.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. “You ought to do it,” I said. “It would be worth the thirty-five cents a word.”
“Well, I probably won’t. But it’s good for a gal to have something like that up her sleeve, don’t you think?” She chuckled. “It makes people respect you.”
“Mama, you’re really something. I don’t know how the good Lord packed so much guts into one little person.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth before I realized this was something she used to say to me. In high school, when I was having a rough time of it, she said it practically every other day.
“How’s that youngun of yours?” Mama wanted to know. She never failed to ask.
“She’s fine. She’s asleep in the car right now or I’d put her on to say hi. Or peas and carrots, more likely. You never know what she’s going to say.”
“Well, she comes by that honest.”
“Don’t say that, Mama. That means it proves a baby’s not a bastard. If it acts like you, it proves it’s legitimate.”
“I never thought about it that way.”
“It’s okay. I guess I’m just sensitive, you know, since she’s not blood kin.”
“I don’t think blood’s the only way kids come by things honest. Not even the main way. It’s what you tell them, Taylor. If a person is bad, say, then it makes them feel better to tell their kids that they’re even worse. And then that’s just exactly what they’ll grow up to be. You remember those Hardbines?”
“Yeah. Newt. I especially remember Newt.”
“That boy never had a chance. He was just doing his best to be what everybody in Pittman said he was.”
“Mama, you were always so good to me. I’ve been meaning to tell you that. You acted like I’d hung up the moon. Sometimes I couldn’t believe you thought I was that good.”
“But most of the time you believed it.”
“Yeah. I guess most of the time I thought you were right.”
The operator came on and asked for more money. My pile of change was thinning out. “We’re just about done,” I told her, but she said this was for the minutes that we’d already talked. I was out of quarters and had to use a whole slew of nickels.
“Guess what?” I said to Mama after the coins had dropped. “Here’s the big news, Turtle’s my real daughter.