Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil Read online

  We didn’t talk about it anymore. But Mama warning me about not telling Granny or anybody else didn’t just have to do with him putting his hands on her. It applied to a situation where even if my mama was gone and I knew where she was, and somebody called asking, “Well, where she at?” I better not tell anybody. Mama made it clear that our business at home was our business. That was house rule period.

  • • • •

  Mama and Mister were fighting again.

  He hit her with a plastic mug, and blood exploded from her face. I saw her sliding down the wall, I felt my heart sinking. I wanted to scream and yell, “Take your damn hands off my mama!” I wanted to hurt him bad, just like he had done her. But I didn’t do anything. I held my tongue and all my anger inside.

  For me, it hurt too much to watch this happen again. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Nette Pooh, if you can’t respect Mister, you don’t have to be here,” Mama said, looking me squarely in the eyes.

  I waited a few nights to make my great escape. I didn’t have much of a plan, but I knew I couldn’t go to a place Mama would go looking first. Stacey let me crash at their house.

  “Yeah, I found yo’ ass!” I was awakened with a big whack to my head. Mama was standing over me with her hands on her hips. Turns out Casey accidentally told her I was at their house after Mama had been combing the neighborhood all night. I’m sure she had been worried sick, and now that she knew I was alive, I was sure she was going to beat me to death.

  “Get yo’ ass up!” she said, dragging me out the bed, down the stairs, and out the door.

  Mama made me feel like having Mister with her was more important than me. So I was sent to live with my granny.

  • • • •

  Ecclesiastes 3:7 says, “There’s a time to be silent and a time to speak.” But my granny would simply say, “There’s a time for talkin’ and a time for keepin’ your mouth shut!” She wasn’t a real religious woman. I can’t even say I ever seen her get ready for church on a Sunday, let alone go. But I know she could put the fear of God in you when she told you to do something. Growing up you just knew you’d better listen, and you’d better not ask no bunch of questions. Granny isn’t big on fussing either, because she feel like if your mama alive, then it’s her business to discipline you. But she is a whoop-yo’-ass grandma if you at her house and do something you haven’t got any business doing.

  My granny had eight kids, and pretty much built the life she had from nothing, proof how strong she was. Shoot, you have to be to have all them kids. She moved to St. Louis from West Point, Mississippi, determined to get what she wanted, and made a way for all her kids. Making her way also meant making sure the family had that one place that you could always go to if you were in trouble or sad, to have a good time on holidays, or just to know you were loved.

  For as long as I can remember 6335 Albertine had been her address, and it was the biggest house on the block, two stories that sat on the corner, with a backyard that was a double lot. You knew it right away when you turned down the street, because it was a wood-framed house with one of them large cement front porches and iron railings all around it. Granny took a lot of pride in her house too. She had a small front yard, but the grass was always cut and it looked real neat, and in spring she always planted fresh flowers.

  When I went outside on Granny’s street I knew to be on my best behavior, because at least one of her neighbors—Miss Jenkins, Miss King, her sister Miss Rogers, or a woman we called Mama Lady—was going to be sitting out on her porch ready to report.

  “Nette Pooh, you really growin’ up and just as pretty as you can be,” Miss Rogers called out from behind her screen door.

  “Thank you, Miss Rogers!” She could catch you off guard, and you wouldn’t even know she was watching you; just out of nowhere you heard her voice.

  “Nette Pooh, tell yo’ granny to call me,” Miss King, the lighter-skinned of the two sisters, instructed me, taking a sip from her glass of brown liquor. She always sported the most perfect silver Afro and had a glass of Crown Royal in hand.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just get up and go to Granny’s instead of me having to deliver a message one door away. I always made a clean getaway before she could start rattling off all her ailments.

  I quickly made my way across the street to Mama Lady’s house.

  “Nette Pooh, how yo’ mama doin’?”

  “She good. How you doin’?” Me and Lady’s daughter, Nina, kicked it a lot and got real tight. In the hood we call it your ace boon coon. We been tight ever since I was real little and knew what a friend was.

  “Hi, Mama! Bye, Mama! Whassup, Nette Pooh?” Nina said, bopping out the door, her weave ponytail just a-swinging. We gave each other girlfriend hugs and quickly shuffled away.

  “I’m good, girl. I’m stayin’ with my granny now. Mama was trippin’,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Girl, well you know we gonna kick it!” We high-fived. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to the Chinamen!”

  I don’t know any black person in St. Louis who doesn’t love the neighborhood chop suey spot. The Chinese got the hood on lock, too. They got wig shops, nail salons, and the corner Chinese food joints. I don’t care how bougie or ghetto you are, you know when you hear somebody say they’re going to get Chinese, they’re going to get some fried rice, or a St. Paul sandwich, or some fried gizzards.

  What you were going to order was one dilemma, but the other was which way you were going to walk to get there. The distance wasn’t going to change, but you had to factor in whether or not you felt like walking past a whole bunch of niggas hanging on the corner, wearing oversize white Ts and baggy Tommy Hilfiger jeans, grabbing themselves in the crotch, trying to prove who was harder than the other. But soon as some girls would come by, they’d turn into a small pack of dogs.

  The other option was walking down a busy street like Goodfellow and having to tolerate cars zooming by, dudes blowing horns at you, or, worse, a car rolling to a stoplight with the window down, bumping so much bass the block would be shaking. It was OK to get a couple hollers if the dude was cute, but you don’t want an ugly boy trying to get at you, besides nobody wants to be bothered with that when they’re walking down the street trying to go get something to eat.

  Which way you walked also depended on how you looked. Either you were going to run in the house real quick and make yourself look cute, or you’d say, “Girl, forget it, I’m finna just go like this,” or, “Well, I’mma give you my money and you can get mine for me.”

  When you decided to walk to the store, you already knew you’d be stopping and speaking with folks. You might even see some girls you into it with, and there might be a fight. You had to ask everybody on the block if they wanted Chinese or something from the store. That’s just a hood courtesy.

  Anytime you walk somewhere in the hood, if you don’t know nobody, people are going to ask, “Well, who is you? Where you from?” Don’t wear your jewelry, either, or somebody might try to snatch it off your neck. Or maybe you could just be cool with everybody, and then you’ll be pretty safe. That’s how our family was. And my uncle Cleo was always out in our neighborhood and Granny’s, cutting grass, raking leaves, putting up Christmas lights, painting their houses. It was like, “Here come the Ewings!” That isn’t my last name, but it’s my granny’s, and that’s how we became known.

  That day me and Nina were both feeling cute, hair done, clothes right, and we took the walk past the corner store. Luckily, only a couple brothers were out on the block, and they said, “Whassup?” we said, “Hey,” and that was the end of it. We quickly moved past them and slipped inside the chop suey spot. The smell of fried onions and peppers hit me at the door, and I knew that steaming hot rice was going to hit the spot.

  • • • •

  Granny didn’t have a separate TV room or a TV in the living room, or what we referred to as the front room. Hers was in the kitchen; it was the
place everybody gathered whether it was to watch a favorite show, eat some of her good soul food, or just talk, hang, and laugh. The smell of fried fish, a pot of beans cooking, collards, chicken and dumplings, peach cobbler, or, her favorite, corn bread, found its way to your nose as soon as you walked in the front door, making you want to go straight to the kitchen to see what daily soul food delight she was cooking up.

  I bounced into Granny’s kitchen, sat down, and started immediately running my mouth, asking a million questions a minute: “Granny, how you doing’? What you doin’, Granny? Granny, what’s this on TV? Ooh, can I get some of that?”

  My mouth started watering right away when I saw her plate of half-ate cabbage and corn bread. Every day she made a pan of corn bread from scratch to have with every meal. I don’t care if she made a pot of spaghetti; she made a pan of corn bread. Granny looked over her glasses that had slid down her narrow nose, and shook her head. She wasn’t paying my interruption a mind, dipping her corn bread in the cabbage juice, taking a bite, before licking her fingers that was wet with mushy crumbs stuck to them. She liked to eat it with her hands, said that made it taste the best.

  I was just about to reach for the pan of corn bread when I saw a bag of flour on the counter. “Granny, what you ’bout to make?” I forgot all about the corn bread, never giving her a second to answer the first flurry of questions.

  “Nette Pooh, put this plate in the sink,” she said, sucking her teeth, handing me her plate. “Nette Pooh, I ’clare, sometimes a person can just talk too damn much,” she said, giving me a matter-of-fact look.

  One thing she didn’t do was have a lot of idle conversation. Me, I’ve always been talkative, but Granny was known to speak her mind and consider your feelings after—straight, no chaser.

  “Nette Pooh, you thirteen now, right?” she said, looking over the top of her glasses.

  “Yes, ma’am!” I said, flashing a big, proud smile.

  “Uh-huh, well, you gettin’ older, and it’s time you learn to just listen, or you gonna miss what’s goin’ on in the world one day,” she said, standing up, grabbing a dishcloth, wiping her hands. Granny smoothed down her clothes over her tall, thin body. A lot of people’s grandmothers would wear housecoats or housedresses, dusters, and that made them look old. But Granny got dressed every day, usually in pants, a T-shirt, and a button-down shirt over it that she would leave open. She was casual but hip with her style, even down to the Jheri curl she sported.

  “Nette Pooh, I bet you don’t even know how to make a butter roll, huh?” Granny said, raising her eyebrow before walking over to the counter. She turned around and started sifting some flour over the bare countertop through her long fingers.

  I didn’t hardly get what a butter roll had to do with anything, but I wasn’t about to give her no crazy look.

  Granny was right, I didn’t know how to make a butter roll, but it was one of my favorite desserts she made. When I saw how calm and quiet she got, sifting that flour real easygoing like onto the counter, I wanted to watch more and learn how to fix it like her. I was just about to get comfortable in a chair.

  “Uh-uh, you bet not sit down because you gotta work.” I was really confused now. “Nette Pooh, today you gonna learn to stop talkin’ so much and listen more.” She pointed at me and said, “Chile, you be in the kitchen wit me so much you should at least know how to make a butter roll. Matter fact, you should know how to make everything, but you don’t. That’s because you be talkin’ too damn much. Now, hand me that sugar.”

  I reached into the cabinet with the quickness, barely looking at the bag, handing it to her, spilling some on the floor.

  “See there, Nette Pooh, when you run yo’ mouth, you don’t pay attention, and when you don’t pay attention, you can miss important details. You make mistakes.”

  I sucked my teeth and cracked a smile.

  “Now, get me a mixin’ bowl, and hand me that cinnamon, bakin’ powder, salt, and nutmeg.”

  “That’s all? What about the water, Granny? Don’t you need the water now?” She gave me one of those chile-if-you-don’t-shut-yo’-mouth-you-betta looks.

  I slowly gave them to her one by one, watching her patiently mix together the simple ingredients. First, she poured flour into the bowl, and then she cut the stick of butter up in it and added a little salt and a little baking powder. She took the fork and mashed it all together until it turned into little balls of dough and was crumbly. Then she motioned for me to get the water. I filled a cup up and handed it to her. She added it slowly, and then mixed the dough some more until it was in a bigger ball. She put it on the counter that was covered with flour. I handed her the rolling pin and she began to roll it all out. When it was flat, she put cinnamon and nutmeg all over it and rolled it up.

  Granny put the pan in the oven to bake, and then while it started cooking, she said, “Now I’mma show you a secret. She winked, pointing to the can of evaporated milk that was sitting out and the butter. I handed them both to her, watching her carefully blend them together. I was fixed on her every move.

  “This gonna give it a nice coat and keep the moisture in,” she said, handing me the small bowl she had mixed it all in. She opened the oven and nodded toward me. I was nervous as I carefully poured the mixture over the entire roll. Granny nodded her approval, and then, with an easy glide, made her way over to her favorite chair. It was in front of the sink, and a large kitchen window was over it. Granny would sit there every day, watching the cars going by and checking out what the other folks in the neighborhood was doing. You could see part of her backyard and the street from it too. So when her grandkids visited, she could watch us playing on the block and in her yard.

  Granny ate her breakfast in front of that window, drank her coffee, dipped snuff, and watched her favorite program, The Young and the Restless, like today. She turned the TV dial to channel 4, and it was perfect timing. Her girl Drucilla was giving much attitude on the screen. Granny and me sat there without saying a word. I looked at her slowly sipping on her coffee with her eyes fixed out that window on catching any and all action outside.

  As soon as Bob Barker called out, “Come on down,” Granny opened the oven and the hot air gushed out. She smiled. I smiled back. She grabbed a pot holder and put the pan on the stovetop. That butter roll was golden brown and perfect.

  Now, Granny called that butter roll a “kitchen dessert,” but you could eat it for dessert or breakfast.

  “Now who ain’t got flour, sugar, cinnamon, and butter, Nette Pooh?” she said, breaking her silence. “Everybody oughtta be able to go in they kitchen and make this dessert without even goin’ to the store,” she said, cutting down into it, carefully placing a slice on a saucer and pushing it across the table to me. You could see the warmth rising from the bread. “I came up from the country, wasn’t nobody rich. You make due with what you got, and when you use your eyes and ears, you learn about food, people, and everything in life.” I was hanging on to her every word as my teeth sank into the sweet, soft dough, leaving my lips glistening with melted butter.

  Granny wanted me to understand that there was a time for talking and a time for keeping your mouth shut, and when she set that butter roll down in front of me and looked me in the eyes like she did, I got the message just like that. She had her way of teaching you stuff, and you didn’t even know you was being schooled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOOD LOVE

  When I turned fourteen and I moved back home to Emma Street, I was happy for two reasons. Mama had finally gotten fed up with Mister. She kicked him out, and he was gone for good. The second reason was because even though Mama kept a tight leash on me, worried that I’d get caught up in a fast crowd in the streets, she agreed that I was old enough to make the short ten-minute walk to Granny’s by myself.

  I had come around the block to see my mama and Brittanie. It wasn’t like living around the way full-time, so I had to get reintroduced to my old world. I was feeling myself because I was going to be a f
reshman in high school in less than two months. But for now, it was still summer vacation, and the only thing I was interested in studying was Hanging Out 101. Even once high school started, unless I was doing homework, or over at Granny’s, or it was wintertime, I’d be chilling on the porch.

  I took Granny’s rule to always look clean and neat when you stepped out the house to the next level. Taking extra time in the bathroom mirror with the curling iron to put another bump in my stack, I grabbed a small hand mirror and held it up at an angle. Oh yeah, them stacks in my hair was like perfect stair steps. I dusted the stray hairs and was out the door.

  From the moment I came back on the block, I could tell right away these three girls who lived a few doors down were going to be trouble. I couldn’t figure out exactly how many people lived in their itty-bitty old raggedy house. It leaned forward, looking like it was about to fall over in the dirt patch of a front yard that hadn’t seen grass in I don’t know how long. But I did know that these sisters lived there, each one bigger and fatter than the next one, dark-skinned, looking like a trio of the meanest, ugliest NFL linebackers you ever want to meet. Even their mama had a twisted-up, mean look on her face.

  Seeing them hang outside, hair never combed, clothes dingy, wearing dirty sneakers with the tongues sticking out and no shoestrings, I couldn’t believe their mama let them come out like that. My mama would snatch Brittanie or me backward before we could open the door if we ever tried to go out in public like they did.

  They would test me whenever they had a chance. Like the day I was just sitting out on our porch, minding my business. I could feel their eyeballs on me, following my every move.

  “She think she cute,” the smallest girl out of the three said under her breath, rolling her eyes and neck chicken-head style.

  I played it off, shooting back a nah-you-just-must-think-I’m-cute look.

  Just then Pinky called out from her porch across the street. “Hey, Nette!” she said, waving. The girls backed off, but I knew it was temporary.