The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove by Susan Gregg Gilmore Page A

baby—for me, for my mother … even for you.”
    Tears were collecting in the corners of my eyes. I desperately tried to soak them up with the edge of my cotton blouse before they spilled down my cheeks. Maizelle handed me a fresh white handkerchief that she pulled from somewhere deep inside her sleeve.
    “Listen, honey, I thank Jesus every day that we haven’t seen the kind of violence here in Nashville like they done down in Birmingham. Still, there’s just too much hate floating in the air. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel it even way back here behind all these big, old trees?”
    Yes. I felt it. I did. Sometimes my lungs were so full of it I wondered if I would choke on it. My chest would tighten and ache with it. But by Cornelia’s swimming pool, with Samuel sitting next to me, the air had felt so pure and so clear.
    “Bezellia, people like Samuel believe they can make this world a better place just by peacefully standing their ground. Not me. After seeing my mama lying there in the dirt, bleeding so bad I thought she might die, I knew I could never just stand there and watch, never again,” Maizelle said, and then she picked up another bean.
    “Throwing rocks became my specialty,” she announced, her tone a little lighter and more relaxed. “That’s right, a strong right arm can teach a mighty powerful lesson in my opinion. Now don’t you ever repeat that, or old Maizelle might just wind up in jail—again.” She said it so matter-of-factly that I almost started laughing. But her face was again stern and serious, and I knew she wasn’t kidding, leaving me to wonder what all about Maizelle I didn’t know. “You don’t need to be giving that boy any ideas that could get him into trouble. You understand what I’m telling you?”
    “I’m not giving him any ideas, Maizelle,” I stammered, trying to convince myself as much as her.
    “Sweetie, just being with you is giving him ideas. Worse than that, it might give other people ideas too, people who might think Samuel needs to be taught a lesson for simply sitting by the swimming pool with a girl like you.”
    “He’s just my friend, I swear,” I insisted, my voice now flooded with tears. Maizelle shuffled her glider right next to mine. She put her round, thick arm around my shoulder and pulled me a little closer.
    “Sweetie, Nathaniel’s not mad at you. He’s just afraid for his son. Surely you can understand that. And you know, if I had my way, it wouldn’t be like this. Of course, if I had my way, I wouldn’t be living in some other woman’s basement.” Maizelle smiled and snapped another bean.
    “‘Red and yellow, black and white, they’re all precious in his sight.’ That’s my way of thinking,” she said, her voice now sounding full and upbeat. “Funny how some churchgoing folks I know see things a little differently. They sing the song, but I’m not sure they’re really listening to the words. And I’m not sure we’re ever gonna be able to change that. All I do know for sure is that this old arm of mine is getting tired.” She laughed right out loud. Then she stroked my hair and held me a little closer, a little tighter.
    “Honey, it’s a sad thing when a child ain’t loved right. But you will be. It won’t always be like this. So hard, I mean. You’re turning into a beautiful young woman, Miss Bezellia. And I know that heart of yours is aching to be loved. And I also know that you and me ought to be down on our knees thanking the good Lord that your mama wasn’t here.” We both started laughing, realizing that, for once, my mother’s special condition had indeed been a blessing. I relaxed against Maizelle’s arm and picked up another bean.
    Nathaniel and I never talked about that day by the swimming pool. In fact, there were a lot of things Nathaniel and I never talked about anymore. And sometimes I wondered which was worse—never seeing Samuel again or seeing Nathaniel every day, each of us feeling guarded and