Little Black Girl Lost (10 page)

T
he 1947 powder blue Oldsmobile stopped in front of the house in Ashland Estates. There were a couple of Ford trucks parked in the driveway, owned by the men fixing the house. When Marguerite got out of the car, she was speechless. Johnnie's house dwarfed hers. She had seen the deed, but still some part of her refused to believe that her sixteen-year-old daughter was able to get a white man to not only purchase a house for her, but give her the deed to the place.

Marguerite wouldn't admit it, but she was just as jealous as she was happy. “Let me see that deed again, girl?” Marguerite said.

Johnnie handed her the deed and said, “Mama, how many times do you need to see it?”

“Yeah, it's the real McCoy alright,” she said and handed it back to her. “Well, let me see the inside.”

“Okay, Mama,” Johnnie said, pulling the keys out of her purse.

As they started for the house, the neighbor she had waved at the day before came out of her house. She was watching them the entire time, trying to decide if she should go out and introduce herself.

“Hi neighbor!” the woman said.

Johnnie instinctively knew who it was before she even turned around. The woman was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a white blouse tied in a knot around her waist. She was tall and well-built with black coffee skin, thick lips, and slightly slanted eyes.

“Hi!” Johnnie said with equal enthusiasm.

“I'm Sadie Lane,” she said, extending her hand.

“I'm Johnnie Wise, and this is my mother, Marguerite.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” Sadie said.

“Thank you,” Johnnie said. “You been livin' here long?”

“About ten years now.”

“I suppose you know all the gossip on the block, huh?” Marguerite asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I can trust you to take care of my daughter.”

“Daughter?” she said, forgetting that Johnnie had introduced Marguerite as her mother. “You look like sisters.”

“Thank you, but no. She's my daughter.”

“How old are you, girl?”

Johnnie wondered if she should tell her how old she was. She didn't know Sadie.
But what harm could it do?

“I'm sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” Sadie said, astonished. “Girl, you look like you could easily be twenty-nine or thirty. I bet you have all kinds of trouble with the men folk, huh?”

“Yeah, they always compliment me.”

“Well, I better let you all see your new place. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know I'm a friendly person. If you ever need anything, let me know, okay?”

“I sure will, Sadie.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Have you forgotten your manners, Johnnie?” Marguerite asked. “Invite her over to see the place.”

“I've already been inside, but I'd like to see it when you move in, though. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Johnnie answered.

“When are you moving in?” Sadie asked.

“Hopefully, in a couple of weeks. But as soon as possible.”

“Okay, well, I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“I hope so, Sadie.”

“If you like, when you're finished looking around, you can stop by and have some coffee or something. I'll tell you all the latest gossip in the neighborhood.”

“You got a deal,” Marguerite said.

“Okay, great. I'll see you all then,” Sadie said then walked back to her house.

“She talks to us like she's talkin' to white folks, don't she, Mama?”

“Yeah, she probably works for white people or somethin'. You could probably learn a lot from her.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

W
earing a white bathing suit that showed off her tight body, Marguerite was lying on a cushioned lawn chair by the pool at the Savoy, thinking about Johnnie's beautiful home. Johnnie's house was located in an affluent colored neighborhood, replete with professionals of every genre. Their money notwithstanding, they were just like the poor coloreds where she lived. According to Sadie, the husbands were hardworking men who provided for their families, and their wives were church-going hypocrites who gave them hell every night then wondered why they ran around on them. Yet, somehow they thought they were superior to the coloreds who weren't professionals. Some of the marriages were healthy, but none were without problems.

In spite of how she felt about the arrogant Negroes who lived in Ashland Estates, Marguerite would much rather live there than her Sable Parish neighborhood.

“Mama, what are you thinkin' about?” Johnnie asked and took a sip of her iced tea.

“You really wanna know?” Marguerite frowned.

“Of course.”

“I'm jealous as hell, Johnnie. I cain't believe this shit. You ain't even seventeen years old yet, and you got a big-ass house in a rich neighborhood and your whole life ahead of you. And what do I have? Not a goddamned thing! Don't get me wrong, honey, but shit, that's fucked up! You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, Mama.”

“And to top that shit off, you layin' around the pool drinkin' iced tea in the best colored-owned hotel in New Orleans. Somehow the shit don't seem right.”

“Mama, you gotta demand more. That's what I did. If men are going to use us, we gotta be smart about it. We gotta start doin' some usin' of our own. That's why I have stocks now.”

“For real?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stock in what?”

“Buchanan Mutual is where I started. Now I have stock in Ford, General Motors, Coca Cola, Sears, and I have a plan to branch out from there. Martin calls it a diversified portfolio.”

“Who in the hell is Martin?”

“My stockbroker.”

“What?”

“That's right. I have a stockbroker now, Mama. Every woman ought to have one as far as I'm concerned.”

“Are you and Martin together too?”

“Not yet. But he wants me, and I basically told him he would have to teach me how the stock market worked if he expected to be with me.”

“And he went for it?”

“They all go for it, Mama. You sho' was right about that. Well, not Lucas. He's not like that.”

“You still call yo'self seein' that boy.”

“I told you I was gon' see him, Mama. I meant that.”

“Does he know about Martin?”

“No! And ain't no reason to tell him.”

Marguerite shook her head and said, “Girl, you got the skills of my Mama already in you. She could do the same thing with men. She had 'em all wrapped around her finger, but you done took whorin' to a new level.”

Johnnie pulled her sunglasses down far enough for Marguerite to see her eyes and said, “I'm not a whore. I'm a businesswoman.”

“A businesswoman, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, tell me about this plan of yours.”

“Well, first I'm droppin' outta school and—”

“Oh yeah, we was supposed to talk about that.”

“There's nothin' to talk about. The decision's made.”

“Well, can you at least tell me why?” Marguerite asked.

“The straight truth is I'm embarrassed, Mama. I can never go back to that school again. The thought of everybody knowing what I'm doing, knowing the details of my life really bothers me. And what they don't know, they'll simply make up. I just can't bring myself to look into the face of the girls that I belittled. I guess what's worse is I'm so good at it. I'm so good at it, it scares me. It's like the sky's the limit. It's like nothing's beyond my reach. And yet, I'm afraid to reach out and grab it because if I do, if I do grab all that I'm offered, what does that make me? But if I don't take all that I can, I become the classical fool. The court jester for all to witness. No, school is out—forever.”

For the first time, Marguerite understood what she had done to Johnnie. Sure, her daughter had gotten over it as she predicted, but Johnnie hadn't accepted her fate the way she had. In the pit of her stomach, she felt uneasiness. It wasn't nausea. It was a nervousness of great expectations. It was hope. Hope that her daughter would one day fulfill all of the dreams that she once had for herself. Marguerite was torn. She wanted Johnnie to do better than she did, but at the same time, she didn't want her to do too much better. Johnnie's success would magnify her abysmal failure as a parent and a whore. But still, she couldn't wait to hear how Johnnie planned to do something with her life.

“I see you've put a lot of thought into this,” Marguerite said.

“That's all I've been thinkin' about—mornin', noon, and night.”

“Tell me the plan then.”

“No, Mama. First, I wanna hear about my daddy. You promised to tell me about him and what happened between you two over a year ago, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. You sure you wanna know about him and us?”

“Uh-huh.”

Just then, Johnnie spotted Robert Simmons coming in their direction.

“I see you didn't learn anything from our conversation this mornin', Mr. Simmons,” Johnnie said.

“Of course I did,” Simmons replied.

“Then why are you here?”

“I like the abuse,” he said, looking at Marguerite.

Marguerite looked surprised. She wondered if that comment was meant for her. And if it was, how would he know? She dismissed the whole idea.
There's no way he'd know.

“You like the abuse, huh?” Johnnie said.

“To a point.” Simmons grinned. “You two sisters?”

“No, this is my mother, Marguerite. This fool is Robert Simmons.”

“This is your mother?” Simmons said, surprised and also ignoring the insult. “We've met, though. She's a guest of the Savoy from time to time.”

Surprised by the revelation, Johnnie looked at her mother. She wondered what was going on.
Who was she bringing to the Savoy? It certainly wasn't a colored man. It had to be a white man. But who?

“I'll tell you about it later, honey,” Marguerite said, scowling at Simmons.

“E
xcuse me, Mr. Simmons, but is it your policy to intrude on your guest's privacy?” Johnnie asked.

“Am I intruding? I thought I'd say hello, that's all.”

“Well, hello and goodbye, Mr. Simmons,” Johnnie said gruffly.

Without a word, Simmons left. As he walked back to the hotel, he thought about them.

Looking at Marguerite, Johnnie said, “So, what's he talkin' about, you bein' a guest here from time to time?”

Feeling the pressure of the question, Marguerite decided to change the subject. The best way to do that without too much suspicion would be to tell her about her father.
Hopefully, by the time I'm finished, she'll forget about what he was talking about. If I told her my client was the Grand Wizard of the Klan, and she tells someone, white folk will kill us all.

“I thought you wanted to know about your father.”

“I do.”

“Well, it started when I was fifteen. Just like you, I was given to a white man. I met Michael, Benny's father, in school, much like your friend Luke.”

“His name is Lucas, Mama.”

“Whatever. Anyway, my mother told me he was no good, but of course I didn't listen to her and ran away with him to Chicago. We weren't together two months before I was pregnant with your brother Benny. The next thing I knew, he was gone. Ain't seen him since. So, there I am in a big city, all by myself. I didn't know anybody and I didn't have a dime to my name. So, what did I do?”

“What?”

“I turned to the only thing I knew, whoring. I made enough money to get a bus ticket back to New Orleans. When I walked in the house, my mother just shook her head. She couldn't wait to tell me, ‘I told you so.' I just went to my room and cried myself to sleep. When I woke up, we talked about the baby I was carrying. She told me she would help me out if I helped myself. To her, helping myself meant I had to whore. This was all after I had the baby, of course. At first, it was the most humbling thing I ever had to do. Then before I realized it, I was being sought after quite a bit. It was then that I knew I was good at this, much like you mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, I didn't have the mind my mother had with money. The mind you apparently inherited from her along with her good looks and charm. I just got the good looks and charm. That's why I don't have nothin' to show for it after all this time.”

Johnnie's eyes welled with water. It was so sad, and she hadn't heard the worst of it yet, she thought.

“So anyway, I go to Congo Square one night to dance and have a good time. And guess who happened to be playing there that night?”

“Who?”

“Louis Armstrong and the Hot Five.”

“Mama, is it true that Congo Square was set aside in the early 1800s for free and enslaved Coloreds to sing and dance and play their drums?”

“Yes, it sure was.”

“And you met Louis Armstrong there?”

“Well, first I met yo' daddy. He was the saxophonist in his band. You should have seen him up there on stage with that charcoal-gray zoot suit on; playin' that saxophone like it would be his last time.” She had a smile on her face but didn't realize it. “I was standing at the edge of the stage screamin' like a crazy woman. He saw me, came over, and played to me. He was so handsome. He was a little short, but man, could he play. His name was John Wise.”

“So, y'all named me after him?”

“Yes, he insisted on it. He wanted a boy, but he loved you just the same when we found out I had carried a girl for nine months.”

“So, y'all got married, huh?”

“Yeah, and it was the worst decision I ever made.”

“Worse than runnin' away with Michael?”

“Oh God, yes. John was a ladies' man to no end. Sometimes I think he couldn't help himself. Women was always throwin' themselves at him. I know you know by now, if there's one thing a man cain't do, he cain't turn down some free pussy. If a woman, any woman, blind, cripple, or crazy open her legs, he gon' get a piece. That's why I don't even bother with love no more. Girl, that thing hurt me so when I found out he was seeing other women on the road. I thought if I traveled with him, he would stop. I was there to give it to him whenever he wanted it. And do you know that nigga was still fuckin' everything that moved? Then when I did it with Satchmo, all hell broke loose.”

“You did it with Louis Armstrong?” Johnnie asked, totally shocked.

“Yes, Satchmo was always pressin' up against me. Told me I was finer than sunshine and sweeter than the mornin' dew. Told me only Dorothy Dandridge was prettier.”

“So, what happened?”

“John found out about it and beat the hell outta me. That's what happened.”

“Now, wait a minute. That ain't right. He was doin' it first, wasn't he?”

“That don't matter to a man, Johnnie. A man don't know how to handle his emotions because of the way they was brought up. A man keeps his emotions deep inside him. It usually takes the death of a loved one for a man to cry. The damn fools. They haven't figured out that God gave them tear ducts for more than funerals. But anyway, when a man is deeply hurt by a woman, you can count on him beatin' or even killin' her for doing the very thing he did to her. And it don't matter to him how many times he did it. The fact that you did it once is enough to shatter him emotionally. Since he doesn't know what to do with his pain, he allows his pain to turn to anger. And when that happens, Johnnie, you better get outta there as quick as you can. 'Cause if you don't, he's liable to kill you.”

“So, then what happened?” Johnnie asked, completely fascinated by the story she was hearing.

“What happened is him and Satchmo got into it.”

“What?”

“Sho' did. Busted Satchmo's lips and loosened some teeth. Satchmo had to cancel a few gigs behind that. He ended up firing yo' daddy. John told me he was going to start a band of his own. Told me he'd be back in a couple of months. He ain't been back to New Orleans since.”

Johnnie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, deliberately. She had often wondered what became of her mother and father. Now she knew, and it wasn't any better than not knowing.

“I would have liked to have met him, Mama,” she said, taking off her shades and wiping her eyes.

Marguerite could see the tearstains on her daughter's face.

“You cryin', honey?”

“Yeah. It's so sad.”

“You understand now why I did what I did with you and Shamus?”

“I understand, Mama, but you're still wrong for doing it.”

“That may be true, but my heart was in the right place. I just didn't want you to have to learn life's hard lessons the way I did. You're a woman now. The choice is still up to you. Remember me tellin' you that way back then?”

“Yes, I remember. But how do you expect me to stop now? My reputation is ruined. Besides, I'm deep into my plan now.”

“Yeah, that's right. You were supposed to tell me about that.”

“You think you slick, Mama.”

“What do you mean?” Marguerite laughed.

“You're changing the subject again.”

“You don't need to know everything I do.”

“So, you not gon' tell me?”

“No. I agreed to tell you about your father, not about the men I see.”

“Fair enough,” Johnnie said, thinking,
I'll just get it outta Mr. Simmons.