“No, I mean slaves. Slaves were family, too. Living in the house, taking care of their masters’ children like they were their own. And there were some kind slave masters, although nobody wants to talk about that. God forbid anyone would want to be politically incorrect.” A hand in the air, the diamond shining. “You know, I was raised by this wonderful Black girl, Flossie? She’s worked for my family since before I was born.”
“How old are you, Rebecca?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Wow. Miss Flossie has worked for your family over two decades? That’s a really long time for someone to remain a girl. She must use some high-end moisturizer.”
“Yes, Flossie’s very beautiful, and so loving. She fed me from her own breasts. She used to say somebody wrote the Book of Ruth just for us: ‘Whither thou goest, I will go.’ Okay, I told you my research, now you’ve got to tell me yours.”
She gave me a flirtatious look, wiggling her shoulders. I told her that I was interested in slave life.
“Why slave life?” she asked.
“I guess it’s personal for me, because my family is descended from slaves.”
“Well, of course they were. You’re Black.”
“Thanks for noticing that, Rebecca. Because do you know that, dark as I am, sometimes people actually think I’m Puerto Rican?” I looked at her seriously. I willed myself not to laugh in her confused face.
“Oh. Really? Okay.”
“So anyway, Rebecca, after my family was freed, they were tenant farmers. They still are.”
“Sharecroppers, you mean.”
“No, I mean tenant farmers.”
“Which is the same thing as sharecroppers, Ailey.”
“No, Rebecca, it’s not. And nobody works for shares anymore. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“If you say so, honey.”
Rebecca pulled her shiny ponytail and looked away from me. I watched her glance around the room, blinking her eyes slowly. I hid a smile at her uppity shenanigans: this chick could stroke her hair all she wanted, but she still didn’t know the distinction between tenant farmers, who’d rented land but owned their own crops, and sharecroppers, who’d worked for shares, borrowing against their crops. Knowing her ignorance gave me a nerdy frisson.
“Ailey, I need to say something. Scooter needs a friend who’s like him. You know what I mean. And I’m so glad he has you. I really am.”
“No problem. He’s like my little brother.”
“And Scooter and I want to invite you over to dinner. He knows loads of cuties over in the B-school. Not that you need fixing up, but I’d love us to hang out.”
“Thanks, that’s so nice of you. I’m so busy right now with my research, but when things calm down, I’ll think about it.”
*
“You’re going to end up cussing that woman out,” my mother said. “You might even have to fight her.”
“Mama, please stop tripping.”
It was on a Sunday, on what had become our regular phone date. She’d had a phone installed in her bedroom, so she could relax while we talked. And now she allowed me a few “girlfriend” moments.
“Ailey, she’s . . . what do you call it? Stalking you. That’s what she’s doing, because she thinks you’re going with her husband.”
“I told you, Scooter and I are only friends.”
“But hasn’t he been paying for your coffee? And your breakfast, too? I know I’m out of practice, but that shole sounds like foreplay to me.”
“Lord have mercy.”
“I’m not judging you, baby. I was young once with a hot tail.”
“Mama, please. This is so nasty.”
“And if you use condoms with the man, what’s the problem?”
“What’s the problem? He’s married to that girl!”
“So? I’m supposed to feel sorry for Miss Anne?”
“Her name is Rebecca.”
“Her name is rude, insensitive white woman. And I still can’t get over that mammy thing. Done, Jesus.”
“Wasn’t that crazy?”
“Why you think that boy married her in the first place?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing. She is very pretty.”
“You can’t find you another Black friend in town?”
“No, I can’t. It’s real hard to make friends here. And before you say I should have gone to medical school, please don’t.”