Green@Uncle Bo Bo's Fish & Grits: A Beax Rivers Short Story
How Many Are Going to Uncle Bo Bo's?
Lula Jean Bevins was standing in the doorway waving good-bye with one hand and holding a royal blue cell phone to her ear with the other. Close to noon, it was unusual for her, but she was still wearing her night clothes: a pale yellow duster, blue pajamas, and her fluffy, "poodle" house slippers. As if she needed something other than always being surrounded by her three loyal canine children to show her undying love for them.
Ford, her 29 year-old son, waved back, then started backing out of her driveway. He figured his mother was calling ahead. Telling their close family friend, Mr. Juke, that he was on his way over to eat lunch.
Lula Jean had eagerly accepted early retirement months ago at age 49, but she still got up every day with the chickens. "I sewed for 20 years at that dern'd shirt factory while I was raising three boys," is what she said to anyone who asked why she retired so young. "My husband died and left them all the money they needed to go to college. They don't need me that much no mo', so I'm taking two years off from working while I'm still young enough to enjoy 'em. All I'm gon do for two whole years is to relax, 'cause Lord knows I've earned it."
It was all a lie, Ford thought as he studied his mother's expression. What she told people was her cover story. Those frown lines he saw etched across her usually smooth-as-silk forehead, and the "steely" look of determination in her eyes were revealing the truth: She was not trying to relax, and somehow, she was going to interfere in his love life.
All four of the disappointed faces in front of him provided all the evidence Ford needed. The verdict was in: Neither Lula Jean nor any of her three dogs liked his girlfriend one bit. And now, three sad canines were stealing cautious glances in his direction. They seemed genuinely hurt, like they knew exactly who was to blame for why they hadn't been allowed inside the house over the past several days. Ford's heart went out to them. Until they arrived three nights ago, he had no idea his girlfriend hated dogs.
It was the last day of February, but there was only a slight chill in the air. The really frigid air Ford felt was coming from the woman sitting next to him.The engine of the shiny silver Mercedes Benz SUV was purring as softly as a newborn kitten, and Ursula's disapproving glare in the direction of his mother's dogs was the loudest sound registering inside the luxuriously outfitted vehicle.
It had been Ursula's idea for him to rent the Mercedes. She'd insisted on it. “Make a good impression,” she'd said when he told her he’d be renting for the trip home. His six-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser had gotten him through and beyond Harvard law school and three Massachusetts winters. But now that he was doing well financially, he would soon be trading it in and hadn't driven it home to keep from putting even more miles on its engine.
Sounding certain she knew the right buttons to push with him to have her way, Ursula laid things out for him, from her perspective. "You’re a Harvard Law grad, for God's sake. You've worked at the biggest oil and gas firm in Houston for four years, and you haven’t been home in three. It’s time for your folks to see the successful attorney you’ve become. Rent the Benz.”
Ford knew there wasn't a car in creation that would impress his mother, but he wanted Ursula's first trip to his hometown to begin on a happy note. That's why he'd rented the vehicle she wanted him to rent. Now, surrounded by icy silence, he wished there was something the car could do to help make things better between his girlfriend and his mother.
Last night, before heading off to the separate bedrooms his mother insisted they use while they were at her house, his girlfriend told him she didn’t want to go to Uncle Bo Bo’s today for lunch. “Fine,” he'd said to her, “don’t go.” Then, this morning, when he started getting ready to leave, she started getting ready to go too. He knew it was because she’d messed up badly the night before with his mother and now felt she had no choice but to go. Having no choice but to go to Uncle Bo Bo's—a place she'd already decided was far beneath her standards for dining, meant the scowl on her beautiful face wasn’t likely to disappear any time soon.
"Why Uncle Bo Bo's?"
“Tell me again, Ford,” Ursula said, even louder this time—as if he hadn't heard her the last time. “Why do you have to go eat at a place called ‘Uncle Bo Bo’s Fish and Grits? There must be somewhere else we could go."
"Besides the fact that I like the place," he said, "I'm going because I have a taste for some down-home, country-fried catfish and grits." He forced a smile. "Is there something wrong with me paying a visit to a place where I did a whole lot of my growing up?" He punctuated his last statement with a loud laugh only because his words had come out sounding harsh. He'd been working hard to keep things light and breezy that day, but Ursula was working his nerves. There was no way he could tell her how his stomach and his heart were longing to reconnect with a past that was found only at Uncle Bo Bo's. He glanced at the woman sitting next to him. She hadn’t cracked a smile, something that would have let him know she understood. He decided not to care.
A long moment of silence passed before he spoke again. "You know you can stay at the house and eat lunch here . . . with my mom," he said. "That is . . . if you want to stay."
He was sure she heard him, but she didn't respond.
The last time he remembered being happy with Ursula was when they stopped, on the way out of Houston, at her favorite coffee "shoppe." Before they got on the road to head to Mississippi, she told him she had to go to a place he found to be pretentious and arrogant. The owners had even felt the need to spell the word "shop" with two "p's" and an "e." One wouldn't have been arrogant enough. Ford never liked going to the place, but he always went anyway. Because Ursula loved it, and he enjoyed doing things that made her happy. When she told him they just couldn't leave Houston without stopping there, "one last time," he didn't send her the scowl he'd felt like sending her way. He'd simply smiled. Then, after rolling her eyes at him, she'd said, "I need this . . . before we get to a place where we'll only be able to go out for a cup of coffee at a gas station."
"Do you have to go to Uncle Bo Bo's?"
Staring at his mom and her dogs in his rear-view mirror, Ford was willfully keeping his eyes on the road. Not just because he was driving, but also because he was exasperated. Ursula had asked, once again, the same question she'd asked him three times in the last half hour.
They were on highway 84, just seconds away from the railroad tracks where, after crossing over, he’d make a left and they’d be in The Quarters. The countdown was on: How would Ursula react to the Quarters, the place where he grew up? Would she relax and try to understand what a special place Uncle Bo Bo's was to him? Would she at least pretend to think it was "quaint" and "folksy?" Or would she roll her eyes back and turn her nose up in disgust, as she'd done when she'd seen his mother's dogs all curled up and sleeping in the den three nights ago when they arrived?
The Quarters was a little settlement within the town limits of Pleasant Valley, a tiny hamlet that Ford knew fell far short of being like the places his girlfriend liked to visit. Nestled along the muddy waters of the Pearl River in south central Mississippi, he thought of this part of town as "cozy," and "homey." He'd planned to point out and tell Ursula about different spots and places in town and in his old neighborhood; places that meant something to him as they passed by things on their way to Mr. Juke's. But she was in such a "mood," he decided silence was golden. He was worn out over having to think what it really meant that she kept asking why they were going to Uncle Bo Bo's.
Ursula didn’t know it, but his mother had told him, last night after dinner, that she didn’t think “this one” was The One. Never one to keep her feelings a secret, Lula Jean had waited until Ursula had gone upstairs to get ready for bed, and then she'd told him, straight-out, she didn't like his girl, and she didn't think "this one" was right for him. He hadn't even told his mother he was thinking about proposing to Ursula. But then, he didn't have to. His mother had a way of knowing, often, what he or his two younger brothers were up to without them telling her even one thing. She had probably known he was thinking about marriage even before he knew it. Now that he was all grown up he knew it was definitely true what she'd told him all his life: that she knew him better than he knew himself.
Ford released a weary sigh as he vowed to himself, silently, not to see every little thing Ursula said or did that day as evidence his mother was right. Again. But no matter how hard he tried to stop thinking about the clashes between Ursula and his mother, his mind kept wandering right back to the scenes of his girlfriend's latest crimes.
“How nice, never expected to see something like this … at least not here," Ursula had said two nights ago when they arrived at his mom's house. Lula Jean had brought out--on a sterling silver tray, what she'd inherited from her great Aunt Jean. An antique sterling silver tea service that she only used for special company. Ursula, with her nose tooted high into the air, had made her rude comment, then added, "People who own silver like this usually have maids and butlers.”
It wasn’t just what Ursula had said that upset Ford's mother. It was more the condescending way she'd said it—making it sound as though his mother had no idea how nice her own tea service was. It was a triple insult as far as Lula Jean was concerned. Ursula had looked down her nose at her, insulted her home, and then insulted her intelligence.
Ford had learned, the hard way, that Ursula's face always telegraphed to anyone in her presence that she wasn’t satisfied. Her nose had been tooted upward since they'd arrived at his mother's house, as if she was smelling a dead rat. He knew it meant Lula Jean was too countrified for Ursula. It meant Mississippi wasn't the right state to be his home. And that dogs did not belong inside a house. It meant fish and grits even sounded too countrified for her to behold, let alone eat.
It was no wonder why Lula Jean did not like her.
From the moment they arrived at his mother's house, Ursula had started looking down her nose at everything. Then, just last night, she'd made another rude comment. About the white lace doilies Lula Jean kept on the coffee table: the ones his late Aunt, her only sister, had made for her while she was dying of cancer. Not caring enough to ask about the doilies, Ursula had picked one up and said, flippantly, “Even though this is crude and clearly unfinished, the attempt ... it's courageous. The design. It's delicate and beautiful. Very intricate. It's actually quite sophisticated. In its own way. Pity it wasn't made properly.” She didn't even apologize as he had pulled her into the kitchen explaining why his mother had quietly excused herself from the room. That incident had been the one he knew had etched the third big "X" Lula Jean was using, in her mind, as marks against his girlfriend. The dogs, the tea service, and then, the beloved doilies.
It was the worst time too, for Ursula to be on her worst behavior. Ford tried to remember if she was always this negative. Maybe he had just gotten too used to overlooking the worst things about his girlfriend because he liked other things about her too much. She was beautiful, poised, intelligent, highly educated, articulate, and career oriented. And she knew how to smoothly navigate and "blend" inside the world he had to fit into as a corporate attorney. He worked for a prestigious law firm where he'd once felt completely out of place, even though his work there said otherwise. Then, he met Ursula. He fell for her quickly because she had helped him learn, fast, how to feel and how to be confident and sure of himself in his new reality. His career demanded he learn how to survive and thrive in a social world once completely foreign to him. Law circles that often called for high society luncheons and elegant, important dinner meetings. He was grateful to Ursula. No, he was more than grateful, for all she'd done to help him. She'd been there for him over the past three years, teaching him, helping him learn how to fit in, seamlessly, into his new world.
Maybe, he thought, her attitude, since they'd been in Mississippi, was just her response to the stress of meeting his mom and being in his hometown for the first time. Maybe things would get better. Maybe Ursula would mellow out once they got to Bo Bo's. Maybe they'd be able to relax there, away from his mother, and the dogs. Maybe she just needed some time.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, slowly. He was trying to stop seeing Ursula's reactions to his hometown and his family as warning signs. He took another deep breath and exhaled again, slowly. It helped. He was beginning to feel a bit better about things. About Ursula.
It could be hard sometimes, to love her. But Ford felt he owed her for what she'd done for him. For how hard she'd worked to help him in his career. She didn't have to do it. Even though they were a couple in a committed relationship, she wasn't obligated to help him, but she'd done it. And even though she was not shy about letting him know she expected what they had together to lead them to the altar, she never pressured him. When all was said and done, he was pressuring himself to see her as "The One." She'd done so much for him, and he intended to do right by her.
Bernadette was cooking the fish and grits that day, because she knew Ford Bevins was on his way over. She knew exactly how he liked his food, and she wanted everything to be perfect. She also knew exactly how long it would take for him to get from his mother's house to Uncle Bo Bo's.
She couldn’t even remember a time when she hadn’t loved Ford Bevins. She always knew she wanted him to be her husband, and she never kept it a secret from anybody. Not even from him. But she was sure he, and no one else, ever took her seriously. Nobody believed she was dead set on winning his heart. No one. Except Ford’s mother. Miss Lula Jean always knew she was serious. When she was growing up, whenever she started trying to decide what her married name would be: "Bernadette Bevins," Bernadette Brown-Bevins," or "Mrs. Bernadette B. Bevins," Miss Lula Jean was the only person who never laughed at her.
Ford's younger brothers always laughed. Hysterically. They said she was the "Queen of Silly" to think Ford would ever marry her. Nathan was her age, exactly, and William was two years their junior. Both of them still teased her about her crush every time they came home for the weekend from Jackson City University. But not Miss Lula Jean. She always just said, "Don't worry about how you'll write your name, baby. I promise, you'll know what sounds right after you both say "I do."
Evidently, Miss Lula Jean had never been joking, because Ford's mother had called her the night before and asked, “You still planning on marrying Ford?” The woman who was most like a mother to Bernie had called to tell her what she thought of Ford's girlfriend. Even though the two women usually talked just about every day of the week, Miss Lula explained that she'd been busy with company, and that's why she hadn't called in several days.
“Yeah, Um still plannin' on marrying him,” Bernie said. She hesitated a moment, then said, “But . . .”
“Ain't no time for buts little girl,” Miss Lula Jean butted in. “He done brought home a woman this time, from Houston. And Bernie, he ain't never done that before.”
“I know," Bernie said feeling a truckload of sadness welling up in the pit of her stomach. "Everybody’s been callin' and tellin' me 'bout her," she said. "I didn't make it to church on Sunday, but Shay Nay and Nel and Jaylene, they all called and told me. Kind of ‘stuck up’ is what they all saying 'bout Ford's girlfriend.”
“She all wrong for him is all I know," Ford's mother said.
Bernie thought Miss Lula Jean sounded really upset.
When Bernie heard the same thing twice, she knew Ford's mama was serious. After that, what Miss Lula Jean had to say kept the two of them on the phone for a whole hour. At first Bernie didn't quite understand what Ford's mama was trying to say, because it seemed hard for her to push the words she wanted to use out of her mouth.
"I don’t know if Ford is gon realize it . . . in time," she said. "But this ain't the woman for him, Bernie. And I need him to know it, befo' it’s too late. See. His brain still ain't thawed out from going to college in Boston, to Harvard. Now listen. He's gon be at Bo Bo's for lunch tomorrow. And you and me? Well. We got to do what we got to do to help him. 'Cause like I said. This girl? She ain't the one."
"But you said she don't want to eat lunch at Uncle Bo Bo's."
"That's what she told Ford tonight. But don't you worry. She'll be there. She'll go anywhere to eat long as it mean she don't have to stay here wit me and my dogs."
"Don't like Buster Brown, Kiki, or Rex, huh?" Bernie laughed.
"Naw, and they don't like her either. Now all I need is some folk to help me help my boy to see the same light the rest of us all lookin' at over here.”
Reunited, And It Feels So Good!
An extremely long—and silent—nine-minute drive later, they were at Uncle Bo Bo’s. Even if Lula Jean hadn’t told him Mr. Juke was still running the place, Ford would have known as soon as he heard that song. They were still in the parking lot behind the freshly painted pink brick building when he heard it. Even outside, they clearly heard the soul soothing sound of Peaches and Herb singing “Reunited.” It was one of Mr. Juke's favorite oldies, and hearing it made Ford anxious to see his old friend.
The smell of good food started filling the air as they turned the corner, getting closer to the front door. Southern-fried, steamed, broiled, barbecued, roasted, grilled, heavenly aromas—sweet and savory, tempting sensations were dancing wildly around him, each one distinct, battling to get to his nostrils first. As they got closer to the front door, the aromas blended together sensuously, tugging not just at his taste buds, but at his memories too. Memories that were clawing to mess with his mind. Thoughts of never-ending crushes and love stories. Of hanging out with best friends on Friday nights after home football and basketball games. Of awkward fumbling in the dark while learning how to kiss, and finally finding out, after Senior Prom, what could come after kissing. Memories of being so young he never thought he'd ever have to grow up. Memories of times and people and places he loved truly and dearly. Memories he would forever treasure.
For a fraction of a second, he had to fight an almost irresistible urge to flee; to turn around and run from this mountain of memories. Uncle Bo Bo's was too precious. It held far too many priceless treasures, things too important to him to run the risk of mixing and clashing--with Ursula's mood. Why not just leave, to please his girlfriend? He could turn around right now. He could take her anywhere else but here for lunch.
As he reached for the door, instead of fleeing, something in his gut told him that being here in this moment was right. Not fleeing was the right thing to do. Then, as soon as he opened the door, Uncle Bo Bo's started working its magic on him, hard. In an instant, he had to face the fact that he was undeniably "connected" to this: A place that was all about the real; the authentic. Good thing it wasn't a Sunday, after church. The tunes would be gospel music, and a "come to Jesus" feeling would be so overwhelming and powerful—it would have been even harder for him to not think about moving back home. To be around the people, the places, the town where he felt so much. Where he knew what mattered, and knew exactly where he belonged. But no, with his Ivy League law degree and his uptown girlfriend, this could never be home again. He even had to wonder if he could ever really fit in here again. With Ursula by his side, it was hard to tell. And Ursula. She impressed him so much, he was thinking of proposing marriage. What did that say about him? About how much he had changed?
The song, "Reunited," made Ford want to see all his old friends. One in particular.
“Good old Mr. Juke,” he said, turning to Ursula as he motioned for her to walk through the door first. The look on her face was telling him what he already knew; she was not impressed or excited to be at Uncle Bo Bo's. He decided to pretend the look on her face wasn't really there. “Baby, you got to meet my old neighbor. Remember I showed you the house we lived in, before Mama moved? Well, Mr. Juke's house is across the street from our old house. That old rascal is still running this place, still playing old school songs. That means he's still his old cool self!”
“Who would allow anyone to call him ‘Juke’?” Ursula asked, frowning.
“It’s short for ‘Jukebox James,’” Ford said, her words wiping the smile off his face. “Mama told me he was still running the restaurant. He’s the owner, an old grade-school classmate of Mama’s. Ruled the jukebox in here since he was a kid. That's an honor, you know. I mean, it means something, to me and to everybody who loves this old place.” He forced a smile at his girlfriend, still set on having a pleasant visit, in spite of her.
The sour "how dare you bring me here!" stare she gave back erased a lot of the joy he’d felt just a moment earlier. It reminded him that reminiscing with her was not going to be any fun at all. She'd already tooted her nose high into the air, telegraphing her disapproval of everything she was seeing. In a blinding flash, Ford realized he'd made a colossal mistake. Not just in bringing Ursula to Uncle Bo Bo's. But in bringing her home with him. They'd been inside his old hangout for only a few seconds and her attitude had already managed to make a simple visit to a place he loved start to feel like hanging-upside-down-by-his-big-toes torture.
The Magic of Uncle Bo Bo's
Looking around, Ford thought there should be more people there on a Tuesday morning. Uncle Bo Bo's was famous for miles and miles around, and Juke never had to advertise to get customers. Where was everybody? Ford figured the low turnout had to mean the lunch crowd just hadn't arrived yet.
“Hey Y’all, welcome to Uncle Bo Bo’s!” He heard a young woman's voice yelling to them from behind the wall that separated the kitchen from the front counter. Soon the owner of the voice stepped from behind the wall and into the area behind the front counter.
“Hey, thanks!” Ford yelled back so the pretty girl greeting them could hear him over the music. He'd glanced at her, quickly seeing she was a knockout. That's how he knew he had to be careful not to stare. After all, he was with his woman, and she was already angry that he'd brought her here to eat lunch.
Looking away from the young woman, Ford took another quick look around the place. Exhaling a deep sigh, he was convinced, not much had changed. A new, Bluetooth enabled, high-tech looking jukebox was standing next to the old one; other than than that, nothing had changed. Ford felt so at home he wanted to shout. That's when something nudged at him to do a quick double-take of the beauty that greeted them. She was wearing a very short, body-hugging red waitress uniform and a bright yellow apron. A red and blue polka-dotted bandana pulled her long, dark hair back and away from a very lovely face; a face that sort of reminded him of someone he knew. A face that had the same big, romantic, hazel-brown “cat eyes” of someone he knew. The eyes were familiar, but the rest of her was not. Those bright, friendly, trusting eyes were eyes he'd known and loved for a lifetime. But the smoking body that came along with them, now that was all wrong. It couldn't be.
The young woman was chewing gum and eying him intently as a big smile overwhelmed her whole face. Then she showed him all her teeth, and they were beautiful and white against the glowing reddish-brown darkness of her smooth skin. “Standford Bevins?" she asked, still smiling. "Now you know this is me.”
He looked closer. “Bernie? Dette? Girl, I can't believe this is you. All grown up, huh? Git over here and give me a hug!”
Mr. Juke's little girl was one of the old friends he hoped he would see there. His mother told him she still worked there, but he hadn't expected this … amazingly beautiful and curvaceous young woman. He thought Bernie would be the same long-legged and homely looking little thing he once called his "little sister." She was only around 15? Right? No, that's how old she was the last time he saw her. But that was five years ago. And that meant little Bernie was about 20 now. And little Bernie was gorgeous!
Still giving him her biggest smile, Bernadette stepped from behind the counter timidly, and then she jumped and flew into his arms so hard, she nearly knocked him down. They embraced, tightly, laughing. As he steadied himself, he wrapped his arms around her and started swaying to the music. Just like Uncle Bo Bo's, she smelled sweet and savory. Natural and pleasant, like a spring bouquet mixed with the aroma of baking chicken and chocolate cake. She smelled good, like home. And he couldn't believe how beautiful she was, all grown up.
“Reunited!” he said in time with the words of the song, with his eyes closed, still hugging his old friend tight.
“Hey, hey!” Bernie sang with the chorus. She leaned out from their embrace to look at him. “You sho a sight for the sore eyes, Ford!" She slapped his chest. "Why you don’t come home no more boy?”
Without even looking in his girlfriend’s direction, Ford knew Ursula was angry. He gave Bernadette another squeeze. Even if he hadn’t been so honestly glad to see this girl, and even if he couldn’t believe how good it felt to hold someone so genuine and down-to-earth in his arms, just being inside Uncle Bo Bo’s and taking everything in that day made him know for sure. Even if this moment hadn't happened, he'd still be wishing he'd left Ursula at his mother’s house. Or in Houston.
Reconnecting With "The Real"
Just hugging Bernadette made Ford feel in touch with something he’d been out of touch with, way, way too long. Unquestionably unpretentious, it seemed everything he loved about Bernie was in direct contrast to everything he knew about Ursula. They were two amazing beauties: One a sweet indulgence, like a creamy milk chocolate candy bar, the other a glass of milk, sweetened only lightly, with a drop of honey. Good for you, but missing what's needed to pacify a hungry soul.
“You left right after I came home five years ago,” he said, still holding onto the hands of a young woman who made him feel alive and young. Her touch igniting, throughout his body, uninvited thoughts of endless possibilities. “Mama told me you moved to Chicago," he said, "to live with your aunt.”
Bernadette leaned back with both hands securely locked around his, her eyes searching his. Her bewitching cat eyes were twinkling, assuring his heart that this girl still adored him. Eyes he knew he would always love were now on the face of a very sexy young woman: One who admired him for him. The moment made one thing crystal clear. His on-looking girlfriend did not feel about him the way Bernie felt. And she never would.
“Yep,” Bernadette said. “Lived with Aunt Von, daddy's sister. Went to high school up there for a whole year. I had to leave here … when daddy married that gold digger.”
Remembering the house Mr. Juke had razed to build a very fine home for his son and daughter, Ford said, “Biggest brick house in The Quarters couldn’t hold the two of y’all, huh?” Laughing, he remembered that his mother had told him the story about the woman Juke had married and divorced in the same year.
“Naw, and neither could the Fish & Grits. But 'til she left? I had to get away," she said. "Daddy was in love and wouldn't listen to me, and I didn't wanna claw his boo's eyes out. So I left. But a year is all it took. When that 'ho found out my daddy keeps his money tighter than them hoochie mama dresses she wears all the time, she left him. And then I came back home.”
“But wait," Ford laughed. "Why didn’t I see you when I was home three years ago?” He felt Ursula’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. Maybe ignoring her now would make her angry enough to tell him what was going on with her.
“Yo Mama said you was working on a big case,” Bernadette said. “Miss Lula Jean said you was in and outta here so fast you couldn’t make it over here to see us.”
“That’s right,” Ford said, “now I remember.” The conversation they were having was genuine, but what was in his heart wasn’t. He hated using Bernadette like this, and he knew she didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of the ugliness that was wedging itself in between him and Ursula. But Ursula did deserve it.
When Bernie embraced him again, he knew they both needed the extra hug. It had just been too long.
"I guess us country folk just ain’t important enough for you no more.” She was pressing her head against his chest.
“It’s not like that now and you know it,” Ford smiled. For a moment, his guilt over what he was doing overwhelmed his need to wrench the truth out of Ursula. “You’re the only little sister I’ll ever have,” he said. Had his girlfriend heard the words “little sister?” Were Ursula’s eyes still burning into his back? “I should have made time to come by to see you three years ago, so I’m sorry.”
“Promise you won’t let that many years go by again without coming to see me, okay?”
“I promise,” Ford said. “I won’t.”
The look on Bernie's face changed in a flash as she pulled loose from their embrace. Ford turned his head for a moment and caught a glimpse of why she'd pulled away. It was the scowl on Ursula’s face. It had broken the spell between him and Bernadette. Lime-green Fourth-of-July rockets were shooting in Bernie's direction, straight from Ursula's eyes.
Feeling anger rising up inside, Ford turned his head back to Bernie. He took her hands in his again, and then took a step back--to get a better look. If Ursula was looking for something to break up with him about, maybe this would supply what she needed.
“You better not stay away that long again," Bernie said. Looking deep into his eyes, she was holding on tightly to his hands. "Else I’m gon start thinking bad things ‘bout you Mr. Stanford Bevins, Esquire.”
Thoroughly enjoying being admired, smiling slyly, Ford said, “Don’t tell me you’re calling me a poser just because I work for a big law firm now, in Houston.”
“Naw, you ain’t no poser, ‘Bubbi,’" she said, using his childhood nickname. “Least, not yet. But don’t ever do that to me again, or else I will start thinking you have turned into a poser.”
Hearing his old nickname ushered in a waterfall of memories. Coming from Bernie, "Bubbi" was a soothing balm drenching him in memories of a loving home and family, warming him up from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. His two younger brothers were both away in college now, and seeing Bernie, the third member of their old "rat pack," made Ford miss them. That's when he knew for sure: He didn't want to live without this. Without what it all meant to him.
“I missed you, girl,” Ford said. Then he leaned in and planted a big kiss on Bernadette’s cheek.
“I missed you too big brother.”
Memory Lane ...
“Dette, when I was home five years ago, when I made that turn into The Quarters, I saw you riding your bike with my little brothers right behind you. Remember that? I was headed to see Mama. She was still living across the street from Juke back then. And I laughed ‘til I cried when I saw you all dressed up riding your bike. You had your hair down, swept all over to one side, like your mama used to wear hers."
"Yo mama taught me how to fix it like that," Bernie blushed.
"You had some crazy windmills on your handlebars. Cracked me up! That's still one of the funniest things I've ever seen!” Ford had to touch away tears that had formed on the edges of his eyes.
Laughing along with him, Bernadette was blushing. “Yo little brothers made them windmills after they broke yo mama's green window shade. They was 'bout to get a whippin,' drivin' Miss Lula Jean crazy all day. So I was helpin' to git 'em out of trouble. We rode over to the store, but I got dressed up first, 'cause I knew you was coming home to visit . . . from law school.”
Something in Bernie's voice, the look in her eyes, made Ford want to stay at Uncle Bo Bo's the rest of the day. To explore memories, and maybe even consider possibilities. What was he thinking? Surely it was just nostalgia messing with his mind, reminding him about the "intense" childhood crush Bernie always had, on him. Then, looking into "grown-up" Bernie's eyes, he sort of wished Ursula hadn't come with him to Uncle Bo Bo's. Only there had been no other choice. No way could she have stayed at home with his mother, without him. Not now.
Ford felt his stomach muscles tighten into a cringe when Bernadette glanced from him to Ursula. Then, in that honest, busting-down-the-door way his old friend had, paying no attention whatsoever to any of the rules of English grammar, in her Deep South, cornbread-and-okra-soaked voice, Bernie asked, “Who this is? Yo girlfriend?”
Ford turned toward Ursula. “Oh, please excuse me,” he said, looking back toward Bernadette, “for being absent-minded and rude, ladies.”
He could tell Bernie already sensed tension between him and Ursula. She had always been good at that—sensing stuff.
A song started playing that took Ford even further back in time. It was one Bernadette's dad had made a staple at the Fish & Grits, when Bernie was a little girl.
As if Ford needed a song to make him unable to get Bernadette out of his mind.
Back in the day, that song was played at least once every day at the Fish & Grits. Mr. Juke made sure his only daughter always knew how much she was loved. And now the song was just one more thing making this trip, this visit, this time of being reunited with Bernie, unforgettable. As if he needed a song to make him not be able to get out of his mind the image of Bernadette, all grown up.
As soon as the soulful melody started to fill the air, the girl with the big hazel-brown cat eyes looked at him, and then she turned her head toward Ursula for a second. After tuning her face to him again, she smiled.
He pulled Bernie close again for hug number three. He was reuniting, not just with Bernie, but with Uncle Bo Bo's, The Quarters, and all the comfort and familiarity everything around him meant to his heart. Less than a second later, he set Bernie free and took two steps back. Knowing he had to keep the peace, he put a reluctant arm around Ursula’s shoulders. He knew she was now a boiling pot of hot water that he needed oven mitts to handle, but he had to try. Even though he was tired of trying. He was fed up with handling a boiling pot during his long-awaited trip home, and even though he felt like he was fresh out of mitts, he knew he had to try his best to reconnect with all the things he loved about Ursula.
“Oh, no,” his girlfriend said, crossing her arms defensively to match the dissatisfaction spewing from her eyes. “Don’t end the happy family reunion on my account.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Bernadette, a long-time friend of the family. I call her my ‘little sister,’ because she practically grew up in our home.”
“I was five,” Bernadette said, “When I started staying over to Miss Lula Jean and Ford and his brothers’ house … after my mama died. They lived ‘cross the street from us back then, and my mama and Ford’s mama, well they was always best friends since grade school and high school. And Miss Lula Jean helped my daddy to raise me . . . after my mama went to live in heaven.”
Bernadette spoke so innocently and sweetly, even Ursula had to chill a bit. “Oh,” Ursula said, with green flares starting to retreat from her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear … that your mother died … when you were so young.” Forcing a smile, she extended a hand toward Bernadette.
Risking the feeling of a little hope, Ford thought maybe his girlfriend had learned a thing or two from messing up so badly over the past few days with Mrs. Lula Jean Bevins. Maybe all was not lost.
A Ghetto in Mayberry?
For a minute, Ursula wasn't sure she'd be introduced at all, let alone by Ford as his girlfriend. Of course, she was his girlfriend. She was even almost certain that she loved him, and that he was the one. He was a successful corporate attorney; smart, handsome, and great in bed. How could he not be the one? He was very nearly the whole package. Wouldn't she have to be a fool not to love him? Now, if he could just manage to leave his past behind and focus on their future together, even she could forget he'd been born and raised in a small-town version of a ghetto, in "Mayberry."
Sure, she'd messed things up with his mother over the past several days. But she was planning on marrying Ford, not his mother. Anyway, the 8-hour drive from Houston had given her all the time she needed to frighten herself half to death. The mere prospect of meeting his mother had caused her to panic; something she never did. In her work life, and her personal life, she had always prided herself on being the epitome of "cool, calm, and collected." Then, to get there and find dogs being allowed inside the house. She told Ford's mother she was allergic to pet dander, even though it wasn't true. But that was Ford's fault; he should have told her his mother kept pets in the house. It would have provided a good excuse for her not to come with him on this trip, because there was no way in hell she'd ever share living space with filthy animals, no matter how clean they looked.
And then, there was the silver debacle, and the infamous doily incident. She'd really meant to apologize to his mother for that one. After making what turned out to be very hurtful comments about a silly looking doily that was on the coffee table. She had only been trying to make small talk, something she'd never really been that good at, and she certainly had no idea how to do it with simple-minded country folk. Then, once Ford took her aside and explained that the horrid little doily had been made by his aunt, his mother’s only sister, while she was on her deathbed, well; after that she was far too embarrassed to apologize. Ford thought she was being proud; arrogant. He always said she had too much of the kind of pride that “goes before the fall.”
All she knew for sure was she wasn’t about to apologize to Ford for being “selective” about where she wanted to go, now, or after they were married. Once they were married, she'd have to inform him that when they wanted to plan an out-of-town trip together, this place could not be one of their destinations. She would put him on notice that he’d be making all his visits to Pleasant Valley, Mississippi, without her. Before they even arrived, she'd known she wasn’t going to like any little “hick” town or its inhabitants, and she had no intention of pretending she liked this one.
Ford was happy, smiling the most heartwarming smile she'd seen on his face in days. Like just seeing this … girl … this Bernadette, was making him happier than he’d ever been with her. It was hard work, but she forced a big smile—one she was sure looked genuine. Then Bernadette took them to their table. After they sat down, the girl put her hands on her sensuous hips, and that only accented how small her waistline was. If Ursula hadn't known Ford could never be with someone so … countrified and ignorant … she was sure she would be really jealous of what seemed to exist between this girl and her man. Besides, she was pretty sure Ford preferred light-skinned, intelligent, professional black women. Three strikes, and Bernie was definitely out. There was no way she could ever be Ford's type.
Still, she was sure she detected a twinkle in his eyes every time he smiled at Bernadette. Should she be worried? Nah! No way, she thought. Then she looked again, first at Ford, then at Bernadette. Turning away from them both, she rolled her eyes in exasperation as she pushed away feelings of jealousy that were fighting to rise up in her again. What was she worried about? This bumpkin was young and beautiful, sure, but she was a very dark-skinned waitress in a hole-in-the-wall diner. The girl simply was not Ford's type. Listening to her talk, anyone could tell Bernie was ignorant too. Laughing and chewing gum like a lumberjack on a lunch break. There was nothing of value this blast from the past could possibly add to the lifestyle Ford wanted to live. No way he could ever be attracted to this memory in any way that she needed to be concerned about.
Ursula looked around again just as Bernadette waved a signal to a waiter. A young man dressed in black slacks and a red shirt nodded and then hurried toward the kitchen area.
"Forgive me if I'm staring, Bernie," Ford said, "but I'm having a hard time processing how much you've changed."
"Stare all you want," Bernadette said, looking directly into Ford's eyes. "Yo Mama told me you was gon be shocked to see me all grow'd up."
The young man she'd sent away seconds earlier was already back delivering two glasses of ice-cold water and menus to their table. Bernadette mouthed a silent thank-you before he scurried back toward the front.
“Shocked is right," Ford said picking up his menu. He looked at Ursula. "Bernie, y’all still cookin’ the best soul food I ever tasted up in here?” he asked.
“Where you think you is?” she asked him, very loudly, laughing. “You know we still out-cooking everybody in this here town! Take a look at yo menu, but if I was you, I'd order the collard green soup 'long wit the fish & grits. Do that, and then you'll know you ain't never gon eat no place better than this!”
“Excuse me," Ursula said. She'd seen and heard just about enough of Ford's shock over the all-grown-up little Bernie. "Do you serve anything else in this … establishment … besides fish and grits?”
“Yeah,” Bernadette said looking at her sideways. “It’s called Fish and Grits, but we cook everything up in here, girl. Fish and grits is the specialty, but we serve a lot mo' than that. It's just that's what made Uncle Bo Bo rich and famous!”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Ursula said. "Of course."
Ford was sure Bernadette winked at him when Al Green sang, "sho nuf in love with you."
When Ursula picked up her menu and put it in front of her face, Ford knew she was hiding either a smile or a smirk. She knew if he saw her face, he'd see how she really felt about what Bernadette said. It was clear she didn't think a place like this could ever make anybody rich.
Bernadette must have sensed Ursula's disbelief. She cut her eyes toward him, and then they looked at each other for a second before busting out laughing, loudly, together. Ursula put down her menu and stared at them with no sign of a smile or a smirk on her face. Maybe, he thought, it was an inside joke. His uptown girlfriend had no idea what rich meant in a town like this. Furthermore, he knew she didn't care at all that Uncle Bo Bo’s had produced an enviable lifestyle for Bernadette’s dad and granddad; something that wasn't easily achieved by black men in this small town. Especially those with only a high-school education.
"Let me go git y'all's waitress," Bernadette said. In a flash, she turned and was gone, leaving them to look at their menus.
The sound of high heels clocking against the hardwood floor made Ford notice more than Bernie's sensuous long legs as she walked away. He noticed she was wearing red high heels. She'd been in the kitchen cooking when they arrived, yet she was wearing heels.
“I thought she was our waitress,” Ursula said, jarring Ford's mind back to the more unpleasant aspects of his reality. In that moment, the jukebox started playing "I'm Still in Love with You," by Al Green. Ford was sitting near it, so he looked back at the jukebox. No one had put any money in it. That meant it was playing programmed songs.
After greeting several groups of customers, as she neared the front counter, Bernadette turned back and looked at him. Then, in the blink of an eye, right before she turned the corner and disappeared into the kitchen, Ford was sure that when Al Green sang, "sho nuf in love with you," Bernie had winked at him. Or maybe not. It was true that Bernie had never made a secret of the fact that she had a gigantic crush on him when she was little. And when she was a teenager. Surely it had faded by now. But what if it hadn't? Even if she did wink, it probably meant nothing. Just Bernie being Bernie. But what if . . . nah, it was probably all just his imagination. Mixed in with a little wishful thinking, conjured up by nostalgia. Surely, that's all he was feeling.
“She’s the hostess,” he said, struggling to keep his mind on Ursula, instead of on Bernadette. He was struggling to keep the song's lyrics from messing with his mind, making him believe he'd seen a wink on Al Green's "sho nuf in love with you." Looking at his menu, he purposely avoided Ursula’s eyes. “When her father retires," he said to make conversation, "I'm sure little Bernie will be the owner and the manager.”
“Oh, 'little Bernie' will, huh"? Ursula asked, mocking him. It was as if she was reading his mind and knew he wasn't thinking of Bernie as a little sister anymore.
"Guess that’ll be a great promotion for little Bernie," she said, "From hostess of a dive to owner and manager of a dive. I'm sure nepotism is the only way someone who speaks like she does could ever get promoted anywhere.”
Ford was doing everything in his power to hold inside the words that wanted to come out of his mouth. He wanted to keep peace between them, no matter what Ursula said or did. His girlfriend was a regional public relations director for a big retail chain, in Houston. An ace at her job, he couldn't believe how terrible she was at handling her personal PR. After a few moments of awkward silence passed between them, she asked the question that opened the door he'd waited all morning to have opened.
“And what the heck is a 'poser?'" she asked. "'Little Bernie' said you wuz just about to become one, so what is it?”
Ursula was staring in the direction of where Bernadette was greeting another group of customers. No doubt she was still fuming because earlier he’d held on to Bernie's hands a few seconds too long.
“Posers? Oh, you know the kind,” Ford said. "People from the hood that go away to college, get a little edu-ma-cation, and then after they make a little money, come back home posing and driving big old flashy cars ... acting all uppity and arrogant over something that amounts to nothing.”
He knew she knew he'd chosen his words especially for her.
Ursula was staring hard at her menu.
“I know one thing,” she said without looking up or away from the menu. "If you have to worry about whether or not your car will be where you parked it when you get ready to leave," she said, "that means you're not in a good part of town. And FYI: I'm never going to apologize for not wanting to live in any ghetto, whether it's located in 'Mayberry, Mississippi' or anywhere else. So, can we just order now and eat, so we can go?”
Now he regretted it. On the ride from Houston to Pleasant Valley, he'd told Ursula that Uncle Bo Bo’s, his favorite "hangout," was located in the heart of The Quarters on the end where he grew up. Not the nice part, the north end where most people now entered The Quarters, but the other part, he'd said, where everything was much more run down. Ramshackle buildings, blighted properties—some vacant, and he'd warned that she might even see a few street punks wearing "thug" clothes and bandanas, trying to look and to be tough.
He'd only been trying to prepare her not to expect the beauty and “curb appeal” she usually saw in neighborhoods she visited in Houston and Boston. But now he was regretting telling her so much. Perhaps he’d scared her, and maybe the way she was acting now was partly his fault. But it wasn’t all his fault. He’d seen Ursula’s “uppity” side many times before. The side that was created by the fact that she’d once been a little ghetto girl who dreamed of being a high society girl. And now that she and her family had made it out of the hood, his girlfriend was making damn sure she never found herself back in one. She was letting him know she felt The Quarters qualified as one of the places she'd never want to visit, let alone live in.
“Look,” Ford said. “This is not Baltimore. Okay? This is a little town in the rural fringes of Mississippi, where people still know their neighbors and still actually enjoy talking to one another every day. These people living in The Quarters? They're people, Ursula. Nice people, something you don't seem to know much about. They're parents who know their neighbors’ children, by name and age. The children? They know each others' parents and grandparents, their cousins, and their aunts and uncles. This is a beautiful little town, whether you like it or not. And there are beautiful, friendly people here that love and care for one another. This is not some ghetto in Baltimore, and,”
“Let’s just order lunch,” Ursula butted in. “Let’s just eat, okay? So we can go.”
Ursula had a way of registering sincere disapproval with her countenance. And when she wasn't performing on her job, she didn’t really need to say much to make a lot of people take an instant dislike to her. Ford realized now that he had been drawn to her, not just because she was beautiful, but because she had an air of confidence and sophistication about her that had intrigued him. But now he knew the air was mostly fowl, the sophistication was exaggerated arrogance, and after what he'd seen from her this week, he was definitely more puzzled than intrigued.
“No,” Ford said. “That’s not what we’re going to do. I came here to eat and to hang out a while. I came to see Mr. Juke and Bernadette and any of my old neighbors or friends that might drop by. And I’m not leaving until I’m good and ready. Any time we go to Boston,” he said, “I go with you to places I wouldn’t ordinarily go, because I want to be with you. I go because I want to see the places and know the people you care about. I thought you’d do the same thing when we got here, to my hometown. For me.”
He replayed in his head the many places they visited when they were in Boston together. They always stayed in the mansion her mother ‘moved on up’ to in the years since Ursula and her brother finished high school. He always went everywhere she wanted to take him, eagerly. To museums, art galleries, wine tastings, and any place her mother took them, to show him off to her “hoity toity friends.”
Ursula's mother was part of the “new money” set. She had come close to dying when a package delivery van driven by a drunken employee had smashed into her home in Baltimore, injuring her and killing her husband, her children’s father. The settlement from the insurance company was large enough for the family to move to Boston where Ursula's mom quickly created the reality she’d always wanted. The one she could never afford when her husband was alive and well, and working as a city bus driver.
What Next--After a "Fixer-Upper" Gets Fixed Up?
Before he met her, he’d never dated or even known another black woman like Ursula. She was an exquisite beauty, definitely different; the type of woman he believed he should be with. One with poise, polish, and professional savvy; one who would make a great wife for a successful corporate attorney.
They met at a charity gala his firm was co-sponsoring, and after they’d spent some time talking, he’d asked her out. Three years later, after going through bad times and good ones together, he'd starting thinking about proposing. She wasn’t perfect, but she had a lot of the qualities he felt the wife of a rich attorney should have. She had beauty and brains, traits that would be nice to pass on to their children. But she also had a nasty side that he was sure he'd only seen a small part of. There was more to her mood and attitude that he was sure he'd see more of after they were married.
He was sure Ursula saw him as a great "fixer upper." Someone she could mold into the man of her dreams. She had helped him master the social part of his career, and mastering that had made his promotions come easily because his work was always top-notch. He wasn't rich yet, but he was smart, good at his job, and he knew he was on his way. But what he'd seen from her today had him thinking twice about proposing to his girlfriend. He loved Pleasant Valley, his hometown, and now he wanted to know for sure that his future wife would at least be able to appreciate where he came from. Even if she never loved The Quarters the way he did. Being here today, with Ursula, was forcing him to look at things in a way he never had to before. If his mother was right, what he was seeing now--from the woman he'd planned on marrying, was looking a lot like a deal breaker.
“I went to church with you on Sunday," Ursula reminded him, grumpily, "to something called Revival.” I sat there with you through all that 'whooping and hollering' sermon, while everybody around us checked me out, whispering and questioning whether or not I was your girlfriend or just a friend. I heard them whispering, Ford, and I tolerated a lot of ignorance, from a lot of ignorant people.”
Ford peered over the top of his menu. Yep, she was looking just the way she’d sounded. Like even the words she had to say about his home town tasted bad as they rolled off her tongue.
“And after church … I went with you to that countrified buffet,” she said. The way her words came out removed any doubt that she'd enjoyed any part of being with him at his hometown church. “People actually brought food from home in cardboard boxes for Christ sakes. And then, as if that weren’t bad enough, everyone just sat around and ate it, like they didn’t care where it had come from. And don’t try to convince me all those people keep their homes and their kitchens clean.”
"You eat pizza that comes in a cardboard box, so the boxes weren't the problem," he said. "And, the food in those boxes was in other containers inside the box. So let's talk about what's really bothering you Ursula. You've complained about revival already, remember? When we got back to Mama’s house? For hours? And you didn’t even eat anything there.” Frowning behind his menu, he said, “Too bad too. You missed out on some really good peach cobbler, sweet potato pie, shrimp potato salad and fried chicken.” He laughed, trying to make believe they were having the kind of fun he thought they would actually have that day.
"it’s not funny,” she growled.
Little did she know, he agreed.
"And whoever heard of anybody putting shrimp in potato salad?" she asked. "Do you people have to put animal flesh in everything you cook?"
"You people?" Ford laughed again. "We're all people, Ursula," he said. "You included."
“Yes, you people," she said. "And for the record, I am not like you people, and I never will be."
Staring at his angry girlfriend, Ford thought how he had to agree with her on that point too. In fact, he couldn't have agreed more.
“The way you went around,” she went on. “Eating from every unsanitary box at every table. It was … disgusting; just horrible … for me, thinking you could get sick or get food poisoning or something.”
“I know all the people who cooked the food I ate,” Ford said knowing they weren’t really discussing food, food safety or cleanliness. “That was my childhood church, Ursula. I’ve known those people all my life. You think I’d eat food if I didn’t think it was clean or safe? There were four big refrigerators in the kitchen, and It's February, and they still kept the air conditioning as low as it could go in that dining room for the stuff that was left on counters, until it was time to eat. There was nothing wrong with any of that food.”
“And now,” she said, ignoring his comments, “and now, we’re here, in this … place.”
She was hiding it behind her menu, but Ford knew exactly what look was on her face this time. It had to be the one that always signaled when she was exasperated, fed up, and ready to go. And they hadn’t even ordered lunch.
Let The Sideshow Begin ...
“Ford! Ford Bevins!”
Before he could look up Ford was trapped inside a ferociously imposing but familiar stronghold.
“Mr. Juke!” Caught in the headlock of a grizzly, Ford knew it was useless to resist. It would only make Mr. Juke’s grip tighten. “Old man!" he yelled. "You still got those muscles of steel, huh?” Ford was laughing, clearly being held captive willingly. After he was released, Ford stood up and hugged his old friend again. “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number for you, huh? It’s great to see you, Mr. Juke.”
“And who this you done brung here wit you, boy? Dis’ yo’ girl, huh? Yo’ Mama been telling me you brung a girl home wit you dis time. She a pretty one too," he added, still grinning, "I always know'd you’d end up wit a beauty! Yes siree, I know'd that!"
Ford knew it wasn't helping the situation with Ursula that Mr. Juke was wearing a washed yet still much-stained version of a white chef’s apron. The look on her face told him the apron alone might be enough reason for his high society girlfriend to soon become his ex. And if so, he thought, then so be it.
“Ursula,” I want you to meet Mr. Juke, Bernadette’s dad. This is the man who helped raise me after my daddy died, even though I was a grown man when he passed.”
“Daw’lin, he ain’t gon never git too grow’d up for me to raise him.” His laugh gravelly from too many years of smoking, Mr. Juke extended a large, working man’s hand toward Ursula. She hesitated for a second, as if she had to decide whether or not she wanted his hand to touch her, and then she reluctantly extended a hand. Mr. Juke grabbed it and shook it heartily for a second or two too long.
“Well here comes y’all’s lovely waitress,” Mr. Juke said. He was looking ahead with his arms open wide as if he was presenting something … or someone. “Marylizbeth works here sometimes," he said, "usually in the evening, but I had her come in early today. Asked me if she could brang that baby with her. Her mama usually keep him, but Francine had to go into town.”
Ford thought Mr. Juke was acting a bit strangely, even for him. Mr. Juke was always larger than life in everything he said or did. Still, if Ford hadn't known better, he'd have sworn his old friend was playing a role, and doing it badly. He seemed to be playing the part of an announcer, like he was directing a stage show.
“Ford, you know she kinda sorta named dat boy after you,” Mr. Juke laughed. “Named him Brenford, had everbody thankin’ for sure he was yo son for a while. Then, once she started taking him places, everybody know’d he half white. Tole the whole story ‘bout who the daddy. Yo’ old high school classmate, Glen Bishop? She was that white boy’s 'booty call' too!” Mr. Juke laughed again. “Same as you. Every time he come home to visit his folks!”
Now Ford was certain something was going on. Mr. Juke knew good and well Maryliz's daddy was named Brenford. The two men were good friends, so why in the heck was Bernadette's dad trying to upset Ursula? His eyes shot past Ursula. Sure enough, her face was frozen as she watched a very pretty Maryliz pushing a baby's carriage toward them, with a baby in it. Was she thinking there was a possibility the child was his?
"I haven't even been home for years,” Ford whispered loudly to Mr. Juke, while looking first at his old friend, and then toward but not directly at Ursula. "And what he said, well, that was over way before I met you, Ursula."
“Yeah, I know,” Mr. Juke said, still laughing. "Everbody know that kid ain't yours, boy. Maryliz was probly jest wishin’ is all. Everbody know who her baby daddy is.”
The pretty waitress greeted him as soon as she got close enough for them to hear her. After she got to their table she carefully parked her baby’s stroller next to him.
“It’s good to see you boy, lookin’ so good, too. How you been?” She was smiling.
“Hi Maryliz,” Ford said, suddenly feeling a bit faint. “This is Mary Elizabeth, baby, and her baby,” he said.
“This little Brenford Glenarius,” Mary Elizabeth said as she pulled her note pad from where she'd tucked it, somewhere on the back of the baby’s stroller.
Mortified, Ford looked at Mary Elizabeth, then back toward Ursula, but not at her eyes. He was steering clear of his girlfriend's penetrating dark eyes. “She and I, ah, we … use to go … out, … long before I met you. Ah, Maryliz, meet … my girlfriend, Ursula.”
“From Houston, huh, she is? Where you live now, huh?”
“From Houston, by way of Boston," Ursula said.
"Oh, my cousins, dey live up dare too. What part 'a Boston you from?"
Ursula had no intention of engaging Maryliz in small talk, and Ford knew it. "She's originally from Baltimore, Maryland," He said, hoping to block so that Ursula wouldn't need to say another word to Maryliz. Or things could get ugly.
"Oh," said Maryliz. "I don't know nobody from dare."
Another customer waved to their waitress. She looked at Mr. Juke and he winked. Then she said, "Umma go see what he wont, y'all look at the menus and I'll git yo order when I git back, okay? Mr. Juke? Look after Brenford for a minute?"
"Show will," said Mr. Juke. The lovable giant bent down and peeked inside the stroller, then he started talking to the infant. The baby just looked at him, cooing and smiling.
Ford turned toward Ursula but still couldn't take his eyes off the menu in his hands. He wanted her to know the truth about him and Maryliz, even though he knew it wasn’t going to make much difference. Not now. Anything he and Ursula had before they got to Uncle Bo Bo’s Fish & Grits—before they got to Pleasant Valley—was certainly gone for good, and there was no way to ever get it back. The only question remaining was if they would even try to pick up the pieces after today, or if they'd just throw in the towel and call it quits.
A Mama's Work is Never Done ...
A thought hit Ford in a flash, like a lightening bolt, nearly knocking him off his seat. What was happening, it wasn’t simply too much; it was something else. It wasn't fate intervening that had put Bernadette there that day looking so good, greeting him and Ursula at the door. Mr. Juke was usually the greeter. And now he knew why Bernadette was dressed up and wearing heels. He'd never seen her wear anything other than jeans and sneakers when she worked at the Fish & Grits, and no other waitress was wearing a body-hugging red dress showing off lovely curves and long, beautiful legs. It was clear. This was not just too much. This was most certainly not fate. Someone had rallied together a battalion of The Quarter's most loyal troops, and they were working together. In concert. They were scheming to make sure a wedge was driven in, tightly, between him and Ursula.
One second later, as if to corroborate his suspicions, on queue, the song "Brown-eyed Girl" started to play. It was like they weren't sure he would have come to the right conclusion by now—meaning their conclusion—by himself. So they were pushing the envelope a little further toward him, helping him to connect the dots with this little well-planned melodrama. Exactly how dumb did they think graduating from Harvard had made him?
Ford's mom sang Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl" to Bernadette when she was little.
What Do You Think?
In the Tales from the Quarters book of short stories, Ford proposes marriage to one of these two women, and she accepts. Which woman do you think he proposed to?
It was the song Ford's mother played on the stereo and sang a lot to Bernadette when she was little. Bernadette, the possessor of big, beautiful, romantic, full-of-life, hazel-brown "cat eyes," was standing close to the counter, way up near the front door. He needed her to save him, but he knew he couldn't give that burden to her. He had to save himself. She turned her head around and looked directly at him, smiling, eyes intense and beautiful. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he knew he never wanted to stop looking into those eyes.
A few seconds earlier he hadn't been able to look at Ursula out of embarrassment over Maryliz. Now he couldn't look at her because of what he had to admit he was feeling in his heart, for Bernadette.
Even his scheming mama couldn't have known his feelings for Bernadette would change after he'd seen her this time. It had been a long time since Bernie was their little brown-eyed girl. When she was little. But she wasn't little anymore. She was all grown up—and based on what had happened here today, Ford was sure of one thing and one thing only. Bernadette was, most definitely, "The One" that Lula Jean Bevins wanted for him.
This story is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, dialogue and narrative in this story are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright 2012, by Dr. S. B. Middlebrook (pen name, Beax Rivers). All rights reserved.To contact the author, visit patreon.com/beaxrivers.
If you enjoyed "Green at Uncle Bo Bo's Fish & Grits," you should read Beax Rivers’ first novel, Silver: Currents of Change. Available at Amazon.com, in hard cover, paper back, and e-book.
© 2012 Sallie B Middlebrook PhD