taking turns and overlapping.
I thought I heard Mom say the name Todd, and my ears pricked up. I walked into the kitchen and said, “Hi Mom, hi Mrs. Johnson,” and both women clammed up and turned to me, coffee mugs halfway to lips, with these looks on their faces, almost guilty. And I knew something was up.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” Mom said in a tone that was as good as telling me something was going on.
“Come on, Mom.”
“If you don’t mind, Shirley and I were discussing something that’s none of your business.”
“Clara,” Mrs. Johnson said, finally putting her mug down on the kitchen table, “you might has well tell him. He’s sure to hear about it at school tomorrow, anyway.”
“Well, since you’re sure to hear about it at school tomorrow anyway” – Mom sniffed a breath – “your friend Todd Waterson went and got the pastor’s daughter pregnant.”
So that’s it, I thought. Why Todd seemed so strange this morning. I said, “Todd’s not exactly my friend, Mom.” Which was true.
Though heaven knows, I would have liked to be his friend. She just snorted, as if she knew I was hiding something. Mom has this funny attitude about kids my age. Somehow, whenever some kid in town does something wrong, she always acts as if every kid in town did it, including me. Especially me. “I guess they have to get married now,” I said.
“Married?” By Mom’s tone of voice, you’d have thought I’d suggested they jump off the top of the Empire State Building hand in hand.
“Yes, Mother. Married. You know – here comes the bride and all that.”
“Now, don’t get smart with me, Little Mister.” Mom wagged a warning index finger at me. There was a Band-Aid on her fingertip from where she’d cut it while chopping okra for gumbo. It was all I could do not to laugh. Mom’s about half a foot shorter than I am, Afro and all, and weighs about ninety-five pounds soaking wet, so whenever she tries to get tough with me, it’s really kind of funny. I managed to say, “Sorry, Mom.”
“All right, then. They’re sending the girl away.”
“Sending her away? I don’t get it.”
“Well, she obviously can’t have the baby here,” she said, as if that should have been obvious to any mongoloid.
“All right, I give up. Why can’t she have it here?”
Mom rolled her eyes heavenward in this way she has that means, “My dear, dear son – all that book learning, and not an ounce of common sense.”
Finally she said, “Johnnie Ray, it’s a disgrace.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mom.” It sounded a bit on the medieval side to me.
“She’s the pastor’s daughter, Johnnie Ray.” Mrs. Johnson spoke halfway into her coffee mug. “It’s a reflection on him.” I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this yet, but our family and the Bakers – Cherie’s folks – are about the only black families who go to the basically white Baptist church. Most of the others go to the black church across town, but we’d just as soon go to church in the same neighborhood we live in.
“How can he be expected to lead the church if he can’t even control his own daughter?” Mom said.
And I so wanted to say something really snotty, like “You’d think he was having Todd Waterson’s baby” – but I didn’t. I just said “I see,” even though I didn’t, exactly. And then, just as a semi-graceful segue, I said, “So what’s for dinner?” Even though I knew.
“Sausage ’n’ rice,” Mom said, her face brightening once we’d moved to a nice safe subject like food. “It’ll be ready at six.” Which is when we’ve had dinner every night for as long as I can remember.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll go to my room. Nice to see you, Mrs.
Johnson.” Mrs. Johnson said, “Nice to see you, Johnnie Ray,” and I started toward my room.
I stopped at the living-room phone and looked up the Watersons’ number in the church directory. I called and let it ring several times before hanging
I thought I heard Mom say the name Todd, and my ears pricked up. I walked into the kitchen and said, “Hi Mom, hi Mrs. Johnson,” and both women clammed up and turned to me, coffee mugs halfway to lips, with these looks on their faces, almost guilty. And I knew something was up.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on,” Mom said in a tone that was as good as telling me something was going on.
“Come on, Mom.”
“If you don’t mind, Shirley and I were discussing something that’s none of your business.”
“Clara,” Mrs. Johnson said, finally putting her mug down on the kitchen table, “you might has well tell him. He’s sure to hear about it at school tomorrow, anyway.”
“Well, since you’re sure to hear about it at school tomorrow anyway” – Mom sniffed a breath – “your friend Todd Waterson went and got the pastor’s daughter pregnant.”
So that’s it, I thought. Why Todd seemed so strange this morning. I said, “Todd’s not exactly my friend, Mom.” Which was true.
Though heaven knows, I would have liked to be his friend. She just snorted, as if she knew I was hiding something. Mom has this funny attitude about kids my age. Somehow, whenever some kid in town does something wrong, she always acts as if every kid in town did it, including me. Especially me. “I guess they have to get married now,” I said.
“Married?” By Mom’s tone of voice, you’d have thought I’d suggested they jump off the top of the Empire State Building hand in hand.
“Yes, Mother. Married. You know – here comes the bride and all that.”
“Now, don’t get smart with me, Little Mister.” Mom wagged a warning index finger at me. There was a Band-Aid on her fingertip from where she’d cut it while chopping okra for gumbo. It was all I could do not to laugh. Mom’s about half a foot shorter than I am, Afro and all, and weighs about ninety-five pounds soaking wet, so whenever she tries to get tough with me, it’s really kind of funny. I managed to say, “Sorry, Mom.”
“All right, then. They’re sending the girl away.”
“Sending her away? I don’t get it.”
“Well, she obviously can’t have the baby here,” she said, as if that should have been obvious to any mongoloid.
“All right, I give up. Why can’t she have it here?”
Mom rolled her eyes heavenward in this way she has that means, “My dear, dear son – all that book learning, and not an ounce of common sense.”
Finally she said, “Johnnie Ray, it’s a disgrace.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mom.” It sounded a bit on the medieval side to me.
“She’s the pastor’s daughter, Johnnie Ray.” Mrs. Johnson spoke halfway into her coffee mug. “It’s a reflection on him.” I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this yet, but our family and the Bakers – Cherie’s folks – are about the only black families who go to the basically white Baptist church. Most of the others go to the black church across town, but we’d just as soon go to church in the same neighborhood we live in.
“How can he be expected to lead the church if he can’t even control his own daughter?” Mom said.
And I so wanted to say something really snotty, like “You’d think he was having Todd Waterson’s baby” – but I didn’t. I just said “I see,” even though I didn’t, exactly. And then, just as a semi-graceful segue, I said, “So what’s for dinner?” Even though I knew.
“Sausage ’n’ rice,” Mom said, her face brightening once we’d moved to a nice safe subject like food. “It’ll be ready at six.” Which is when we’ve had dinner every night for as long as I can remember.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll go to my room. Nice to see you, Mrs.
Johnson.” Mrs. Johnson said, “Nice to see you, Johnnie Ray,” and I started toward my room.
I stopped at the living-room phone and looked up the Watersons’ number in the church directory. I called and let it ring several times before hanging
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