“Ma’am, we don’t have none of that.”
“Are you telling me you don’t even have plain iceberg?”
Scooter had told me she was from Atlanta, but she hadn’t ever sounded southern in class. Now, though, I thought I detected the accent, but I couldn’t be sure. It might be her tones, which were muted as if she never had to raise her voice to receive plenty.
“No, ma’am, I’m so sorry. We don’t have no lettuce.”
“Why don’t you go back and check, honey? I’ll wait.” Rebecca gave a smile so broad I swore I could see her jaw teeth. Her husband rubbed her arm.
Miss Velma spoke carefully. “Ma’am? All we got is coleslaw, collard greens, crowder peas, black-eyed peas, sweet corn, baked beans, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, French fries, and candied yams. Them’s all the vegetables we got. And then we got light bread, but that’s with the ribs. If you look up over my head on the wall, there go the whole menu. Ain’t nothing else in the back.”
Rebecca started to say something else, and Miss Velma held up both hands. She closed her eyes and several moments passed. As she moved her lips, I heard what sounded like Lord Jesus.
“I know just how she feels,” Gayle said. “‘Honey’？ Miss Velma is old enough to be that white girl’s grandma! See what I mean? No manners. That’s just how they show out in Harlem.”
That afternoon, Rebecca showed up at Old South Collections. She was by herself, and when she waved in my direction, I swiveled and looked behind me, but there was no one there. She walked to my oak reading table and pulled up a chair. She set a stack of blank legal pads on the table. Rebecca was dressed in a female version of her husband’s uniform. A severe suit, but with a blouse in luxurious fabric. She had that self-aware manner of a very pretty woman: she knew someone was watching her and, sooner or later, coveting.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she asked. “I love that blouse. That salmon color is fabulous.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I got it from the thrift shop. Two dollars.”
“Gosh, it’s nice. I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Rebecca Grillier Park.”
I tilted my head: I’d sat at a seminar class table with her since August. Was she really going to pretend she didn’t know me? I stuck out my hand, giving her a strong grip so that she would know my strength.
“Good to meet you, Rebecca. I’m Ailey Garfield.”
“What do you think about the program?” Rebecca asked.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“I just love it already! People told me that graduate school was hard, but I’m having a wonderful time.”
“Great.” I picked back up my magnifying glass. I bent over my plantation records, but after a few moments, I stopped. “Oh. You’re still here, Rebecca. Hey, thanks for introducing yourself. You know, finally, after over a month of seeing me in Dr. Petersen’s class. But I’ve got to get back to work.”
She rose from the table. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next time Rebecca showed in the collections, her hands were empty. She sat without papers or reading materials, lazily pulling her blond ponytail through her fist.
“I heard that you’ve been looking at plantation records. What’re you planning to do with them?”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m friendly with Mrs. Ransom.” She waved at the head librarian, who touched the glasses that were suspended by a chain and sat on her chest. She fixed them on her nose and smiled.
“This isn’t my research, Rebecca. I’m doing this work for a colleague, so I really don’t feel comfortable sharing.” I liked the way that sounded: “colleague.”
Her brow wrinkled. She looked down at her folded hands. I knew I’d hear something from Scooter the next time I saw him.
“I can tell you where some of my own interests lie,” I said. “But why don’t you tell me what you’re working on first?”
“Okay!” She bounced in her chair. “I’m interested in doing research on mammies.”
“Mammies?”
“Yes, mammies.”
I searched for humor in her face. Or irony. Anything. There was nothing. “Um . . . great.”
“See, people talk about how there was so much animosity between masters and slaves, but I want to prove there wasn’t. I want to talk about family.”
“You mean biracial people?”