A social worker entered Ruthanne’s life, a short-haired, redheaded woman with a thick Southern drawl. Her name was Ollie Parks, and she was a mace. How many spikes could a woman have? Infinite, Ollie proved. Never had Ruthanne spoken to someone so lacking in generosity of spirit. Ollie looked in on Vern at school, at the house. Over the next few weeks, it seemed she never wasn’t there.
“You are out of options,” she told Ruthanne on their final meeting, like Ruthanne didn’t know that well. “In cases like this, I tend to recommend immediate removal of the child from the home.” Ruthanne was as much a disappointment as a parent as her own mother had been. “However, there’s a place you can go where I might be able to ensure your togetherness.”
“Where? I’ll go anywhere. Do anything,” Ruthanne said. She was already pregnant with another. Times were only going to get harder.
“You have to understand that the place we’re going to is not one you leave. There’s a contract.”
“I’m not signing any contract,” said Ruthanne.
“Then I can’t guarantee Vern can stay with you. In fact, I can assure you that she won’t. I hate for things to end in this way. It’s obvious that you … care. Yet it is obvious to all that you are ill-equipped.” Ruthanne signed the papers, content that if she wanted to, she could always run.
But when she arrived, she couldn’t understand why she’d ever want to leave. The place Ollie Parks brought her to was not some facility of stainless steel and white walls. It was a wonderland. A utopia made by Black people and for Black people! It was better than the town in Their Eyes Were Watching God and so much more bountiful than the one in Toni Morrison’s Paradise. Uncle Buck would’ve called it Eden.
Ruthanne had never met folks like she’d met at the Blessed Acres of Cain, dressed smartly in their pressed uniforms and always with smiles and kindness in their hearts. Yet they were learned. Had read the books she’d read, and then some.
There was food aplenty and shelter aplenty and clothing aplenty, all of which cost nothing. There were orchards! Ruthanne had never seen an orchard. Wasn’t quite sure what one was at first. There was a range of chores, jobs, and activities she could do, and they didn’t mind that it was going to take her some time to figure out what she wanted.
The only rule was to remember that Black Is Beautiful. Vern got her strabismus corrected, and for once, folks weren’t talking about how ill and broken she was. Nor did they see her as anything but Black. They were given a small house that was all theirs, with a garden to tend.
On Sundays, they gathered for discussions and community suppers. Here, she could leave every worry behind.
Goodness, she even got married, to a man named Lester Holt. He’d been at Harvard the same time she was, though they’d never linked up. He’d studied physics.
“This is God of Cain’s plan for man-and womankind,” the leader of the compound said. Reverend Sherman. “This is the power of the Black family when united and whole. Whiteness knows that our togetherness is their destruction, and that is why they have put every effort into locking away our brothers, poisoning our connections with drugs and vice,” said Sherman. He wasn’t wrong. He sure wasn’t.
There were doubts, sometimes, like when her Lester said she had no right to turn down his requests for sex because that would create a rift between them, severing the bonds of family. She disagreed, of course, but didn’t know if she had any right to, or if her mind was corrupted by the notions of whiteness, like all their minds were. It was like being on a roller coaster. When the little cars start clicking awake, moving forward ever so slowly at first, you ask the attendant at the machines, “Can I get off?” wary now of what is ahead. It’s too late now, though. You are on the track.
At least she never wanted for the necessities, and nor did any of her offspring. What life was waiting for her outside of Cainland?
Thank God of Cain for Ollie, the snake who’d lured her into this particular pit.
27
VERN WEPT.
For what? For whom? She didn’t know. It was several lifetimes of tears. Eyes fluttery and lost, she stood limp in Gogo’s embrace.
Ollie had been the same age in the haunting with Vern’s mother as she had been when Vern met her. She was ageless. Vern should’ve seen it sooner. Queen’s doing. The fungal spores. If they could heal, they could extend youth, too. Ollie had been with Queen, with Cainland, from the beginning. That was what her words had meant back in that van. Queen was what kept her alive literally, not metaphorically.