SO, this started off as something I wrote in third person. Then, because I was showing it to English Professors I rewrote it in 1st person. Which was my first time writing anything in this narrative.
The only other thing I want to point out is that rather than New York, I placed The Littlejohn Family in the Midwest because I hoped the locality would better resonate with the audience. And with that said here we go!!
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me.
The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.
Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in.
Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.
But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget.
In our early days together, my grandfather’s lover told me that she was not my mother and in that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven year old counterpart required when it came to maternal care.
Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.
Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.
During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place: seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time.
Being the ever obedient child I was, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. But even with this said, I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.
My belief would be silently proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me run errands. I can even remember believing Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.
It was all white with a delicately laced-collar. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.
There came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry. That evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.
As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight.
While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s.
Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.
“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Child, everything you see before you has a story.”
I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful little rocks in Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice.
“During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.”
Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.
“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past, and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.”
Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories? Where does the hatred end and the sentiment begin?
“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”
“Ma’am?” I replied. For no particular reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.
“Do not follow in my footsteps.”
I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age I am now. Ironically
enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales.
I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.
Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life.
However, at that particular moment as a child, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it.
“Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked.
“This -” she lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.”
“Did her husband give it to her, too?”
“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”
Even in my discomfort, I nodded.
“What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze.
Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided.
“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own.
“No.” My idea was correct, but wrong.
“My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused, “We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty.
“That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.”
My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable.
“From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. And after my mother passed on, this has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.”
Not only was I soothed by a far more preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp.
“Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…”
“My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant.
“Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.”
It was not shortly after this, but in gradual due time that when preparing me for an outing, Ms. Bedel would retrieve one of the necklaces from her sacred box and fasten it around my neck. In some cases, it was to enhance my church dress, or to simply show I was a colored girl of high esteem as she and I walked to a show downtown.
Each time this was to occur Granddaddy would part his lips, sneering that Ms. Bedel was making me into a ‘fast’ girl. Originally, his disdain was ignorable. As the sole man in the house, if Ms. Bedel disagreed - and I, as a result, found a voice to also disagree: I could exit the house, beautiful.
Unfortunately, the days of the feminine rule Ms. Bedel and I shared left when cousin
Winston moved in. Although Winston and Granddaddy were separated by generations, their “masculinity” gave them a higher sort of power. If Granddaddy thought I was fast and if Winston thought I was fast, then it was so. From that point on, shiny gems would never again be around my neck.
I did not like this change. Prior to my aunt placing Winston in Granddaddy’s custody, I would receive comments from adults of how “lonesome” I must have been as an only child. I never thought I could be lonely, not when I had Granddaddy and Ms. Bedel’s company. In addition, I was also quite aware of the luck I possessed, because never did there come a time when I argued about what belonged to who.
While the alterations that occurred in my childhood home were minimal at best with Winston’s arrival, they were quite jarring all the same.
Breakfast was smaller, lunch and dinner too. I also had to be tolerant - patient - when Winston sat by my side, giving his own outlandish variations to the personalities of my beloved dolls. His rough housing even led to the tearing of Marilyn! And even though tears fell on my pillow that night by sunrise, I forgave him.
One of the most noticeable changes was in how Ms. Bedel began to seldom speak to me. I thought it would be wise if I did not speak to her, as I acknowledged not just her body language but the dryness of her voice. The change that occurred was not my fault. Ms. Bedel simply detested my cousin.
In her eyes however, I was different. Different in the sense that when she met my grandfather, she met me too, and therefore knew what would come if she decided to move in. Winston was unlike me, not just due to gender or behavior, but because she never agreed to provide for him.
Still, I did not know this. Instead, there were many days where I wondered if I had done something to evoke her coldness, but in truth I just didn't know of the hostile conversations taking place between the adults of the household.
Some of my days were better than others, but the moment I made my greatest mistake came from one of my worst.
I returned home with low spirits after school. It did not matter that it was Friday as the memory of Lucinda Carter’s wrongdoing remained fresh in my heart and mind.
I will admit that in my childhood I more often than not felt an intense desire to be accepted by my peers. I was well-aware I had been viewed as the perfect, ideal child by my elders, but to those in my classroom I was thought of as little more than an old woman, masquerading as a child. During the occasional moments they were willing to overlook my small, shifting eyes and unusual silence, I was filled with jubilance.
With the little friends I had, I joyously followed to play Duck, Duck, Goose. With Lucinda circling us, I could feel the tension build. Each moment was thrilling. No one knew who the Goose would be, and I even speculated that it may be Thomas or Claude who would chase us around the courtyard.
I did not expect Lucinda’s palm to fling into my face as she declared I was the wild goose. And what a fool I was, trying to rationalize the assault. I understood it was a part of the game. But I knew that with the way Lucinda usually treated me, it could not have been a giddy mistake.
Still, I did not say anything to the teachers. Tears no longer slid down my cheeks by the time I climbed the concrete steps of my home.
At that point, I began to think of the things that made me happy, and in that moment it occurred to me the last time I felt at peace was when I was among Ms. Bedel’s treasures. This is what brought me to her side, rather than confiding to my grandfather of the humiliation that occurred to me on this day.
“Ms. Bedel,” I began meek and soft, “can I see your diamonds?"
My first crime of that day was not realizing how Winston was among her. I was not aware Winston’s eye size doubled at the sound of diamonds.
“Yes you may.” All I knew was that Ms. Bedel looked greatly unhappy that I approached her, “but put everything back as found. Do you hear me? Everything, Delores."
“Yes ma’am.” And with that, I was on my way, embarking on my second sin.
After retrieving the jewelry box I navigated to the private sanctuary of my bedroom, shutting the door. Any other time I would not have done this, but it felt relieving to know that I was keeping to myself. Alone. Laid out on my wooden panels, I observed every pearl, opal, and amber gem. In this solace, I could not wait until I had my own collection of jewels to possess when womanhood approached, for surely everyday would be spent in happiness.
“Delores!” The sound of Ms. Bedel’s voice ripped me from my adult fantasies. Before I could rise to my feet and ask ‘ma’am?’ she opened my door, scolding me once more: “you better keep this door open, young lady. I don’t know who you think you are, secluding yourself away from the world! You are seven years old!”
She did not have to curse at me as I hear some mothers do their children. She did not have to strike me as a reminder that she and my grandfather’s words were the law. I already felt the harsh sting of shame and humiliation coursing through me, and so although she did not keep watch on me with a critical gaze after ensuring I kept my door open: when she told me to put everything back, I did so - with the belief I had gathered everything.
It was my fear of further disappointing her that ruined my judgment.
Saturday was fine, Sunday was as well as we attended church like a prim and proper family. It is horrible to reflect on the change that came a mere few hours after our worship.
“Ever since you took that boy in he’s been nothin’ but trouble! He wasn’t even sick on Tuesday, he was connin’ you!”
This was not an argument that could be ignored. It was clear as the siren of an ambulance: both Winston and I could hear the clashing of our guardians echo through the walls. Ms. Bedel’s fury summoned Winston to crouch outside our elder’s bedroom. I was tempted to steer him away and convince him to mind his business until all was calm, but I was also taken by the enragement.
“I didn’t know you was a doctor!”
“I was with him that entire day!” Ms. Bedel shouted, “I could see him running and jumping and just actin’ a fool! Maybe if you weren’t trying to keep up with these young men out here-”
“Woman!” I jumped at Granddaddy’s raised voice, “You don’t know a THING you talkin’ ‘bout!”
Hearing the heavy thud of Ms. Bedel’s feet, I wondered what if the door swung open and the nosiness of Winston and I would be displayed before her eyes. Surely we could never live it down.
“Look -- damn you Amos, look!” However, she did not open the door. Ms. Bedel was elsewhere in the bedroom, and I could only assume she took a stance by the dresser. “My ring is gone! I know that he took it and he sold it to some...some-”
“Some what?” Grandaddy snapped.
“Some hustler!”
My knowledge of the streets were limited, but I knew the title she used for Winston was not right. “You should have seen him - the way he was looking when Didi had mentioned I had diamonds. I could just about read his mind!”
“He’s nine years old, who does he know? If he took it, he prolly gave it to some lil’ girl!”
“Amos! Why are you defending that heathenistic-”
“Shut up!”
“No good-”
“Dammit woman, I said shut your mouth!”
“Ungodly grandson of yours!”
There came a sharp sound. The sound of skin hitting skin. It was stronger than how Lucinda hit me, that I knew.
However, this was not a new sound for Winston. In contrast to his excited face, I was cringing as if I personally witnessed Granddaddy’s powerful strike.
“You hard headed woman.” He hissed, “y’ain’t gonna keep standing here and keep callin’ my grandson outta his name. Y’got one more time t’do that and I’ma drag you outta here. Keep on talkin’ about some itty bitty ring. Keep on.”
“It was my mother’s.”
“Your mama was the thief you’re makin’ my grandson out to be. Your mama wasn’t nobody.”
At that point, Winston was stretching his legs and placing his palm against the door knob. I decided that if Winston would get himself in trouble for getting into the adult’s business, so be it, but I personally would have no part in it.
But the truth of the matter is, by not prying I spared myself from the sight of my grandfather - a man who was more commonly stern whilst simultaneously doting, in a state far different than what I was accustomed to. I knew he was in the wrong - he was terrifying me, just to overhear him in this private moment. But what would I do if I looked at him? Caught him in whatever dominant position he stood in? Then, I heard Ms. Bedel weep.
“I hate you.”
As she continued to weep, my heart broke. “You old bastard - what makes you think that I have to be with you? I don’t have to be with you. I accepted your granddaughter, willingly, I never had to do that for you. Then you put that grandson on me, and...and I’m too damn old to be going through burdens like you! Get away from me! Go on!”
Don’t go… I can recall thinking, I can recall wanting to act out: to cry and scream, but instead I was biting at my bottom lip, thinking: Don’t go. I felt shame at that point, too. Incredibly small, irrelevant. A burden. Now, I was willing to peep through the door like Winston, treated to the sight of Ms. Bedel moving faster than I had ever seen her. Apathetic and rough, she tossed the jewelry box on the bed, grasped at her coats, blouses, and furs.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Granddaddy had the audacity to ask, as if he had not personally told her to remove herself.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?!”
I did not know where the ring of Ms. Bedel’s mother had been. Truly, I thought it was in the box as it needed to be. The truth of the matter was that it was under my bed, somehow knocked there by my little feet as I spent my Friday evening admiring it all. But never would I have stolen from a woman I respected. At this moment, I did not think of my own potential mistakes, but I did think about letting my tears fall and what it would have been like if I rushed into Granddaddy’s bedroom, asking him if she could stay.
“Move, move!” My surely disastrous idea never came to be as Winston grabbed my shoulders the same time Ms. Bedel’s feet came our way. Before I knew it, we were scurrying like small, brown mice to my bedroom. It was very likely Ms. Bedel saw it, but hadn’t possessed enough care to say anything.
“When y’find that damn thing,” Granddaddy followed her, not caring about our wide eyes. “You can’t never come back here. Never!”
“I don’t plan on it, Amos!”
Ms. Bedel would only return to Granddaddy in the pursuit of her fine china. Shortly afterwards, I believe she left Dayton to return to New York.
This would be the first memory that brought me pain and discomfort: something I could not dwell on because it was too harsh. At some point, my grandfather realized that the woman he loved was forever gone, because he would issue cold gazes to Winston. Asserting that if he took her ring, he should speak up. Each time, Winston claimed innocence.
As the months came and went, so did the severity of the emotional wounds of that day. Never would we forget the disaster, but we had to shoulder it and proceed on with our life. Though, one day, I would find something shiny below my bed. Like a calling, the light green streaks requested for my attention in an abyss of darkness. As I cupped it and brought it to light: that fateful day would hit me all over again.
Needless to say, as a teenager I spent many of my days wishing to turn back time. I wished that I could have considered that maybe it was I who made a mistake. Then, I would run to my bedroom, I would search up and down until I found that emerald ring and both of my guardians would enter a state of calmness. This was my fantasy.
But silent, I would keep this ring. Though I would never wear it. Not even as eleven became thirteen. Or thirteen became sixteen. Or sixteen became eighteen.
Always, this ring was to be hidden. Forever my secret.
Even now, it is in my own jewelry box. And though Ms. Bedel’s mother stole it - and I in a way inherited this ring through the tradition of ‘stealing’ it, have never worn it. It has always felt taboo. Instead, what I do is keep it safe.
I am blessed to remember things as well as I do, yet precise memory can be a curse.
