smiled and gave me his “aha” look. “Con-suela's going to help us,” he said.
“What makes you think that?”
“She said, ‘My God.’ It's hardly like saying, ‘Get lost, kid.’”
“But she hung up on me.”
“So?”
“I see that as a sign of rejection.”
Homer sighed. “Harry Sue, you've got to have patience.”
He nestled back into his pillows, smiling. “We'll call her again tomorrow.”
Chapter 17
I didn't get home in time to see the kids off. Sink and Dip had just finished painting their nails and were eating the leftover snacks, pushing stick pretzels to the edge of the counter with their palms and pinching them so as not to disturb the drying polish.
Hunger squeezed my stomach as I opened the fridge, looking for something decent to eat. I was inspecting a piece of American cheese for fuzz when Granny burst through the door, looking like she wanted to bust some heads.
“I tell ya, that nigra's movin' in!” she shouted at no one in particular.
Sink looked at Dip and rolled her eyes.
“Now, Gran,” she said. “Maybe he's the gardener.”
To Dip, she said, “Gran seen him through her binoculars this morning cutting the grass down the block.”
“That house that's been vacant?” Dip asked. “But Granny, you said you didn't care who lived there long as somebody started taking care of the place.”
“I draw the line at nigras!” Granny whirled around to face Sink, her eyes wild.
“He was carrying a chair. Into the house!” she screamed, like that was a federal crime. “What kind of lousy gardener carries chairs?”
Dip was rubbing at her eye and forgot the nail polish, smearing it on her cheek.
“Gran!” she complained.
But old Granny was far away, being consumed by her discovery. She slammed the carpetbag she called a purse onto the counter and fished out her cell phone.
“Put on Eunice Baker,” she shouted into the phone. “Eunice, you old windbag. I told you that nigra was moving in this morning. Now what's gonna happen to these house prices?”
Granny paused and we heard the whine that was Eunice's voice, trying to calm her down. “What difference does it make if he's African? Where I come from, black is black!”
She listened a minute longer before throwing the phone back into her purse in disgust.
Granny was old-school, born in Detroit to a family who settled there long before black people moved up north in search of work in what we learned in school was the Great Migration. Sometimes she even called it Old Detroit, and we all knew what she meant. She meant white Detroit. If we'd been on speaking terms, I might have mentioned that the Indians were here even before Detroit came along.
Granny's hate was so bad it was illegal, Fish. If black people showed up at our door looking for day care, Granny told them she was just full that morning. Got her reported once when the very same lady called that afternoon and Granny said she had three openings.
Funny how her hate sometimes worked in my favor. Because of Granny's preferences, I knew a whole mess of crumb snatchers were safe from her wicked ways. Me, I didn't have a preference, but Beau says in the joint, you hang with your own kind. Black with black, white with white, Asian with Asian, Latino with Latino.
I spent considerable time figuring that out. Seems to me, we all bleed red. But then again, I don't make the rules. I'll just have to live by them.
“His name is Mr. Olatanju,” I told Sink and Dip, surprising myself by pronouncing it perfectly.
Now that I had everyone's attention, I took my time giving up the information. I'd moved along to a piece of bread and started pinching off the green spots.
“He's my new art teacher,” I added.
Granny looked pretty cheesed off to have her information confirmed. Far as I remember, she only had three looks: “mad as hell,” “scheming,” and “lovable-but-worn-out day-care provider.” She started using her purse to do a bicep curl. Whenever she was
“What makes you think that?”
“She said, ‘My God.’ It's hardly like saying, ‘Get lost, kid.’”
“But she hung up on me.”
“So?”
“I see that as a sign of rejection.”
Homer sighed. “Harry Sue, you've got to have patience.”
He nestled back into his pillows, smiling. “We'll call her again tomorrow.”
Chapter 17
I didn't get home in time to see the kids off. Sink and Dip had just finished painting their nails and were eating the leftover snacks, pushing stick pretzels to the edge of the counter with their palms and pinching them so as not to disturb the drying polish.
Hunger squeezed my stomach as I opened the fridge, looking for something decent to eat. I was inspecting a piece of American cheese for fuzz when Granny burst through the door, looking like she wanted to bust some heads.
“I tell ya, that nigra's movin' in!” she shouted at no one in particular.
Sink looked at Dip and rolled her eyes.
“Now, Gran,” she said. “Maybe he's the gardener.”
To Dip, she said, “Gran seen him through her binoculars this morning cutting the grass down the block.”
“That house that's been vacant?” Dip asked. “But Granny, you said you didn't care who lived there long as somebody started taking care of the place.”
“I draw the line at nigras!” Granny whirled around to face Sink, her eyes wild.
“He was carrying a chair. Into the house!” she screamed, like that was a federal crime. “What kind of lousy gardener carries chairs?”
Dip was rubbing at her eye and forgot the nail polish, smearing it on her cheek.
“Gran!” she complained.
But old Granny was far away, being consumed by her discovery. She slammed the carpetbag she called a purse onto the counter and fished out her cell phone.
“Put on Eunice Baker,” she shouted into the phone. “Eunice, you old windbag. I told you that nigra was moving in this morning. Now what's gonna happen to these house prices?”
Granny paused and we heard the whine that was Eunice's voice, trying to calm her down. “What difference does it make if he's African? Where I come from, black is black!”
She listened a minute longer before throwing the phone back into her purse in disgust.
Granny was old-school, born in Detroit to a family who settled there long before black people moved up north in search of work in what we learned in school was the Great Migration. Sometimes she even called it Old Detroit, and we all knew what she meant. She meant white Detroit. If we'd been on speaking terms, I might have mentioned that the Indians were here even before Detroit came along.
Granny's hate was so bad it was illegal, Fish. If black people showed up at our door looking for day care, Granny told them she was just full that morning. Got her reported once when the very same lady called that afternoon and Granny said she had three openings.
Funny how her hate sometimes worked in my favor. Because of Granny's preferences, I knew a whole mess of crumb snatchers were safe from her wicked ways. Me, I didn't have a preference, but Beau says in the joint, you hang with your own kind. Black with black, white with white, Asian with Asian, Latino with Latino.
I spent considerable time figuring that out. Seems to me, we all bleed red. But then again, I don't make the rules. I'll just have to live by them.
“His name is Mr. Olatanju,” I told Sink and Dip, surprising myself by pronouncing it perfectly.
Now that I had everyone's attention, I took my time giving up the information. I'd moved along to a piece of bread and started pinching off the green spots.
“He's my new art teacher,” I added.
Granny looked pretty cheesed off to have her information confirmed. Far as I remember, she only had three looks: “mad as hell,” “scheming,” and “lovable-but-worn-out day-care provider.” She started using her purse to do a bicep curl. Whenever she was
Similar Books
