Chapter 17 #2
That first breakfast in her house, I was forced to clean my plate. I managed the salty ham and undercooked scrambled eggs, but grits were another story. They’d get cold quickly and form a skin on top. My stomach balled up like a fist. I don’t remember being hungry the entire time we stayed there.
“Patsy, you may begin clearing the table.” Lenore’s snake eyes fixed on me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her coolness the night before at Buck’s was about to get exponentially worse. Had I been more astute I might have thought twice about hanging out with her husband after breakfast. His office was near the kitchen and down several steps, a cluttered space overwhelmed with books and African artifacts.
Manford showed my brothers and me ceremonial masks, shields, objects carved from ivory, a snakeskin some thirty feet long.
We listened with rapt attention as he recounted hunting in the jungle one day and stopping to rest on a log that began to move.
He was standing on a huge python that had swallowed an antelope whole, he explained dramatically.
He talked about fire ants that could sting you to death.
The Congolese used blowguns. They poisoned darts and arrow tips with something called curare that caused paralysis.
After the monsoons, one could pick up diamonds from the top of the ground, and I imagined stuffing them in my pockets and solving my family’s problems.
Manford told us about cannibals with teeth filed into sharp points, and shrunken heads, and voodoo dolls.
He showed us photographs of himself in safari clothes and a pith helmet, shouldering a powerful long gun.
All the while he was telling stories, he puffed on a cigar.
I liked him and wanted him to like me back.
I don’t know how much money was in my plastic change purse, probably less than a dollar.
I asked Manford’s permission to visit the Montreat store maybe ten minutes from the house.
I told him there was an errand I wanted to run, not mentioning what it was.
Had I proposed this to Lenore, the answer would have been a resounding no and rightly so.
But her laid-back husband was fine with it, and out the door I went, running to the store.
When I got there, I headed straight to the cash register, pointing to the box of rum crook cigars behind the counter.
I don’t remember what they cost, something like two for a quarter, and I squeezed open my change purse, fishing out the coins.
“Patsy, you know I can’t sell those to you.” Mr. Hinkle had a disappointed look on his face.
“They’re not for me,” I explained. “They’re for Mister Saunders.”
“Are you sure?” A shadow of suspicion.
“Yes, sir.” I nodded.
“As long as you promise they’re really for him.”
“They are, Mister Hinkle. Why would I buy them for me?”
“Well, you could get me in a heap of trouble.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m going to call Mister Saunders later and make sure he got them.” Mr. Hinkle tucked the cigars into a small brown paper bag.
Racing back to the house, I presented my gift to Manford and was pleased by his response.
He made a big thing of my generosity, thinking it hilarious that a nine-year-old was sold cigars.
I explained that Mr. Hinkle would be calling him.
I’d promised him the cigars weren’t for me, and Manford laughed louder, reminding me of Perry Nichols.
His wife was audience to much of this and didn’t smile.
I hadn’t bought her anything, and my infractions were mounting.
While her husband puffed on one of my cheap cigars, she ordered me to set the table again.
I did a better job this time but not much.
After a few minutes, she appeared in the dining room to inspect and reprimand, loud clinks as she rearranged with angry hands.
Dinner was baked ham, big mealy lima beans, yams, and it was a rule that you cleaned your plate.
My brothers and I were unaccustomed to the food the Saunders ate.
Overcooked vegetables and meat. Corned beef with boiled cabbage.
Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, cooked carrots.
Stewed tomatoes with breadcrumbs on top.
Once or twice a week the Saunders would pick up and drop off their cook, Cora. I was always relieved when she showed up with her quiet thoughtfulness and sweet smile. She made delicious beef stew and biscuits. Smart and insightful, she knew how to handle Lenore.
In some ways Cora was a surrogate mother to the Saunders’ three children while raising three of her own.
Her family was relegated to an area of Black Mountain unkindly referred to as “Colored Town,” those who lived there segregated from the rest of us.
White people and those of color didn’t use the same swimming pools or drink from the same water fountains.
I remember my neighbors as extremely religious but not racist. Now and then they could be surprisingly progressive.
Seven months earlier, Montreat held a conference called “The Church and Civil Rights.” Martin Luther King was invited to speak, over the objections of county officials who feared protests and riots.
This was on the heels of violent protests from his recent visit to Los Angeles.
On August 21, 1965, he arrived in Montreat with a full police escort.
Sheriff’s deputies and state troopers stood guard at Anderson Auditorium because of threats made.
My neighbors had guns ready in case a mob of violent racists stormed the town.
Police checked the I.D.s of everyone trying to enter the Montreat gate.
Martin Luther King appearing in Montreat made the national news, and I doubt Mom would have missed such an historic event.
She used to tell me about her father taking her to the 1933 World’s Fair in Chicago.
She listened to him chat for an hour with the African American scientist and inventor George Washington Carver.
She’d tell me how enthralled and impressed she was.
I never heard her make a bigoted comment.
I don’t recall hearing Martin Luther King speak, but that doesn’t mean much.
I was only nine and more interested in playing outside.
Current events weren’t a topic of conversation in our house, and celebrities visiting Montreat wasn’t unusual.
During the summer, guest speakers held forth at Anderson Auditorium.
While the conferences were going on I’d sit in vast crowds of strangers listening to important guests every Sunday and on other occasions.
I’d fidget with the bulletin, often drawing pictures on it while my mind wandered.
Most of all, I wanted to race home and tear off my dress clothes.
Sometimes I’d wear my shorts under my skirt to speed up the process.