from the ordinary world, simply by the archway that led into its interior. The avenue sloped uphill and at its brow stood the neighborhood church claiming its religious domination over the street, not by its charm but by its sheer size. The Catholics always know how to choose a piece of property, she thought. Her employer’s house was not so far past the church, and once she got to the brow of the hill the rest of the walk went by quickly.
She had a key to the back door. She left her umbrella to drip in the laundry room as she hung her coat by the broom closet.
Clarissa was not Catholic, but she was at times a fervent believer. Her faith hinged on the fact that her Mother was, in her eyes, a saint of God, but beyond that, she was never sure exactly what she believed. The fact of God, she was sure of, but the how and why of God was completely beyond her.
In her youth she often sang hymns in the morning, sending her honeyed words skyward to the throne of the great Holy Father God in His golden palace in the sky. Now, as at other times, she wondered whether God was perhaps white after all and simply taking care of his own, leaving poor old black women like her to fend for they’s self till they just dropped from old age.
“Good, sweet Lord Jesus,” she said under her breath, “where is you and what is you thinking?”
The Delano kitchen was warm and smelled of fresh coffee which made Clarissa smile as she tied her apron and began to assess the day’s work.
“Good morning, Clarrie” chirped a slim, middle aged woman in a perfect blue ensemble, her blond hair just touching the collar of her blue silk jacket. “I’m a little late for my meeting,” she said as she glanced at the clock in subtle but unmistakable reprimand. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute. Jeremy is not feeling well so he’s home from school. Would you mind terribly bringing breakfast up to him?”
“Don’t mind,” Clarissa said, without looking up. She was fingering the silver tea set that had been laid out for polishing. “Don’t mind a bit.”
“Don’t mind shit,” she thought. “I just hope my Momma don’ see me now.” Indeed Clarissa’s mother would have turned away in dark dismay seeing her Clarissa in such an inferior position, working as a domestic in such a rich, whites-only suburb. Momma Witherspoon had been a sharecropper, poor as a rat’s behind, but independent in her own way and damned proud. They all had to work hard, overwhelmingly hard since Poppa was gone, but they all did what they needed to. They all climbed onto Momma’s proud train and rode with her wherever she took them.
Share cropping farmers in the early 30’s occasionally wondered if their parents had a better life. Freedom is a relative term and the croppers discovered a form of slavery to the land, to the seasons, to the landlords and to the white boys always looking for trouble. Times were hard for everyone in South Carolina and landlords often functioned without a soul or heart. A black family without a man found difficulty lurking behind every tree. Mrs. Witherspoon though, was a woman to be reckoned with.
Once, as a child, Clarissa had watched in amazement as Momma chased the landlord off the front lawn with a burst from her shotgun. He had come for the rent two days early, but he would never be that bold ever again.
“Rent’s due when it’s due,” said Momma as she put the shotgun carefully back behind the washboard. “Ain’t due till it’s due.”
None of the kids ever gave Momma no lip. Zekyiel had tried it once, but his behind felt the power of her indignation and he never sassed her again. No one did.
Clarissa put the kettle on to boil and set the teak tray on the kitchen table, musing about what young Jeremy might want to eat. She was not overly fond of Jeremy since he sassed his mother something awful and Clarissa hated seeing it. It was none of her business but she hated to watch how he intimidated and brow beat her. It would have been different for her to sass the lady, but such disrespect should never come from a child to a mother. Never.
It was bad enough that Mrs. Delano had a bullying husband. But a bullying child is completely overboard and against nature.
As she thought about it, the strange prickly feeling started moving up the back of her neck, settling over her skull. It was not uncomfortable, just very odd. Very odd. It was stronger than before. She rubbed her head and thought about the breakfast to distract from it.
Jeremy was seventeen. He was tall, athletic and handsome. He had something of an attitude and although he was never overtly rude to Clarissa, she felt his thinly veiled disdain.
“I’ll just bet he’s sick,” mumbled Clarissa. “He didn’t do his damn homework, that’s all. I should bring him some of Momma’s gruel. That’d fix his ass.” She chuckled softly. Momma Witherspoon was never unkind, but she was a strong woman and had raised strong children.
Clarissa had looked forward to having the house to herself. It was one of the few perks of her job. Being home alone in a grand, immaculate home gave her great pleasure. She had to work hard to get it all perfect in the six hours that she was there, besides taking care of the silver tea set, starting the dinner, doing the laundry and watering the numerous houseplants. At least if she was alone she could play the stereo and sit on the sofa for her lunch.
With Jeremy home, that small pleasure was lost to her.
Mrs. Delano was fluttering about the kitchen, putting things in her briefcase, finishing her coffee, jotting down items on a notepad and checking her computer. Clarissa wished she’d hurry and be gone. “If she’s so damn late, why ain’t she out the door?” Clarissa thought as she put two eggs on to boil. Jeremy liked boiled eggs and toast. A burst of maternal softness made her put some marmalade for the toast in a small jar on the tray.
Clarissa’s son had liked marmalade. He had been so easy to please, so appreciative of any little kindness. For a moment she imagined she could see his little face peering over the counter saying “Thank you, Momma”. His smile would light up all the gathering dark of the world. She put the thought away. “Don’t go there,” the inner voice told her. “Don’t go there.”
She unwrapped the pork chops and set them in a bowl of flour. She had forgotten to wash her hands and Mrs. Delano reminded her by putting the small hand towel on the table near her.
Clarissa chuckled as she washed up. “Better clean yo’ hands girl,” she thought. “Could get some of your cooties on the white man’s dinner.”
She was aware of the great blessing the Almighty had given her in the power to dance around within the privacy of her thoughts. Her inner dialogue kept her entertained and sane as she went about the job she was both immensely grateful to have and at the same time hated with at least most of her might. She went dutifully to the sink and felt the warm water sooth her ruffled pride. As she dried her hands on the towel she thought about her days as a singer and the wonderful gigs in New York, in Harlem, in San Francisco. Sometimes she sang as she worked, but that was only when no one was around.
“Don’t go there either girl. Just do what you gotta do.”
By now, her voice was low and raspy anyway, having been fecklessly treated with too much gin and the smoky interiors of the clubs she sang in. Too much living. Too much raucous laughter. Too many tears. She didn’t remember all the words of the songs either. Thought she’d never ever forget. So many songs. She knew the words backwards and forwards. But now, the words tumbled into each other and didn’t flow like before. Like long before when the trumpets and horns carried that wailing sound and she could make the customers stop talking and listen to her sad, dusky, velvety voice.
Mrs. Delano had no idea about her past and Clarissa wanted to keep that part of herself safely locked away where no one could get at it. It was hers and hers alone. She was proud like Momma even though it came out in different ways. But she had her pride. She knew that Mrs. Delano would have been impressed that she had sung with Louie Prima and with Count Basie. If they had seen photos of her in her prime in one of her slick, skin-tight, black cocktail dresses that were her signature, they’d talk to her differently. She knew.
The egg timer shouted at her and cut short her reverie. Orange juice, eggs, toast, marmalade,