Mixed Company

“Grow up!” Wilma heard someone say from behind closed doors, not sure who said it, but not caring either. She had lost count of how many guests arrived at her Victorian mansion the night before for the 1963 Martin Luther King March. Several slept upstairs in the bedrooms. Others settled for the army cots in the basement. Many stayed in the servant’s quarters or the carriage house. And this morning Uncle Tom was snoring loudly on the back porch, most likely hungover from drinking too many Gin Ricky’s.

           From the kitchen the smell of fresh perked coffee and fried bacon stirred many from their beds. As the cook Keisha stirred a huge pot of sausage gravy the radio played a new hit, “If I Knew You Were Comin' I'd've Baked a Cake.” While she hummed the tune she drummed a wooden spoon against the stove and tapped a foot against the floor.  When her kinfolk from far and wide gathered around her, Keisha swung her spoon in the air with the beat of the music and joyfully sang along. 

Well, well, well, look who's here.

I haven't seen you in many a year.

If I knew you were comin' I'd 've baked a cake,

baked a cake, baked a cake.

If I knew you were comin' I'd 've baked a cake.

How-ja do. How-ja do, How-ja do.

Had you dropped me a letter I'd 've hired a band,

grandest band in the land.

Had you dropped me a letter I'd 've hired a band

and spread the welcome mat for you.

Now I don't know where you came from

'cause I don't know where you've been.

But it really doesn't matter

grab a chair and fill your platter

and dig dig dig right in.

          After breakfast Keisha and Wilma were rushing around cooking this and baking that, and when the stove quit working, so did they. Keisha was beside herself. The chicken and a twenty pound ham were uncooked and the raw potatoes were sitting in a pan of cold water. When Wilma dialed a repairman, he was unavailable, and when she called a neighborhood restaurant about catering in some food they were too busy serving Martin Luther King and his followers. She contacted a couple of other eateries, but they also stated they were packed with visitors from all over the country.  After she told Keisha about the problem, Keisha’s temper got the better of her and she hurled one of her homemade cherry pies at the wall. 

           Keisha’s husband came in from the back porch, swiped a finger through the filling and licked it. “When are you going to grow up and stop throwing tantrums like a two year old? I spent an hour picking those cherries. What a waste!”

           Wilma banged her empty coffee cup on the cabinet to get their attention. “Abe, do you think you can grill the chickens and turkey over a bond fire? There’s plenty of firewood in the shed.”       

           By noon Abe had the turkey roasting over open flames in the sunny back yard shaded by oak trees. As guests gathered in a circle around the fire pit an elderly man with a military haircut spoke in a loud baritone voice. “My names Jacob, but call me Jake. I’m Keisha’s uncle from down south. I traveled by bus for three days. Shore was grateful to have a bed to sleep in last night. Only been out of Georgia once. I broke my leg overseas in a combat unit during WWI. That’s why I walk with a cane. I sure hope I’m able to join the Civil Rights March tomorrow and listen to Marin Luther King speak. Basic training was the only march I was ever in.” 

           “My name’s Ralph,” an old guy said, taking a drink of moonshine and passing it around. “Came on the bus with my younger brother Jake. Shore is glad to see Keisha. She takes after her mother, God rest her soul. Times was hard for us Negroes back in those days. The first time I tried to join the Army I was turned away because my skin was the wrong color. Then during 1917 Fort Des Moines opened its doors to black trainees and that’s when I joined up.”

           A grey-haired lady sitting between them bellowed with laugher, her arms folded over her big belly. “Drove all the way from Alabama in my old pickup truck. Clara Belle is my Christian name. Can you believe I got named after a milk cow? Sure as hell did. These two here cousins of mine got lots of war stories, but I’m telling you I could write a book about my life on the farm.  My first husband fell out of the hay barn and broke his neck during the Great Depression. The second dodged the war and died on top of a town whore. If I had it to do all over again I’d marry me a city slicker.”

           Keisha came outside wearing an apron over her housedress. As she passed around a relish tray she thanked everyone for coming. “I’m so happy you all came. Can you believe Wilma hired a private detective to find you all? Geeze, I barely recognize everyone. I shore does miss Mamma. Ain’t no one who can cook and bake like her.”

           “Nonsense!” Clara Belle laughed, dipping a carrot in the onion dip.  Abe said you make a great cherry pie. You should open a nice little café that specializes in fried chicken and cornbread. Your mother would be proud of you.”

           “I’ll never stop working for Wilma. Thirty years ago she took Abe and I in during the Great Depression. We was camped along the Potomac River. Lived in that old carriage house for a couple of years with no running water and an old wood stove that heated the place. Once the guest house was built we moved into that.”

           As Keisha made the rounds a dark-skinned man with muscular biceps and big brown eyes came up to Wilma and shook her hand. She thought him to be middle aged. “I’m Keisha’s cousin from Chicago. My name’s Ben. Would you like to split this place and take a spin around the block in my new convertible? We could cut through Logan Circle Park and drive by the White House.”

           Wearing a flowered hat and a designer polka dot dress that hugged every curve, Wilma blushed at his bold attempt to flirt with an older white woman like herself. “A cruise around DC would be nice, but I promised Keisha I’d help her with the dishes.”

           From a distance Grace came barreling down the alleyway in her 1933 antique convertible.  She wore sunglasses and the tails of her long scarf tied around her neck blew behind her like flags in the wind. When she climbed out she wore sandals, knickers and a red silk blouse that exposed her voluptuous cleavage at the sexy age of fifty-two.  

           “If I knew you were coming I’d have baked a cake,” Wilma teased, glad her best friend could make it. “Can I get you a drink?”

           “I’ve got a craving for Abe’s mountain dew and a good looking man,” Grace said, looking around the yard. “Is that Abe cooking over a fire? Where’s Keisha? I want her to introduce me to everyone.  Who’s that big handsome Negro? He sure is mighty rugged.”

           Wilma laughed at Grace’s free spirit and thought she’d never grow up. “His name is Ben, and he’s quite charming. He drove a ragtop all the way from Chicago.”  

           While Grace and Ben carried on a friendly conversation, Uncle Tom came stumbling from the back porch with a Gin Ricky and headed for the picnic tables where Wilma and her family were sitting. Wilma couldn’t believe how much Bobbie’s children had grown. Joanne was a toddler with a head of natural curls. Butch was ten with freckles. Maggie turned sixteen and Gabby was a senior.   

           Wilma turned her attention to Joe who was a redneck FBI agent and married to her niece. “Joe, did you meet Ben?” Wilma asked.  “He also came from Chicago.”

           Joe screwed up his face and popped the top off a beer bottle. “He probably lives in the projects on the south side.”

           Wilma ignored Joe’s analytical attitude based on race. “Joe, are you planning on joining the Freedom March?”

           “No, but I’ll be there as an undercover agent. I heard there could be up to a quarter of a million civil rights marchers, and I fear rioters may storm the Lincoln Memorial.”

           Butch’s eyes opened wide and his mouth fell open. “Geez, Uncle Joe are you gonna carry a gun? Do you think someone might shoot Martin Luther King? I heard he’s a communist.”

           Joe’s wife interrupted. “Butch, go play with the kids. This isn’t talk for children.”

           Butch rolled his eyes. “I’d like to hear more about being an FBI agent. I might want to do something like that when I grow up.”

           Joe guzzled the beer and tossed the empty bottle in a trash can. “I could tell you stories that would curl your hair.”

            Betty smiled sweetly and addressed Joe. “Dear, you need to slow down on your drinking. The children don’t need to hear about crime and violence.”

           Two-year-old Joanne let out a scream, kicked her feet against the bottom of the table and threw a handful of cranberry sauce across the table.            

           Wilma got it in the face, Butch laughed, Gabby sneered and Libby joined in the laughter.  

           “That’s enough!” Their father snapped, downing a shot of Templeton Rye.

           Wilma wiped her face with a napkin and hammered down a glass of wine like the rest of the boozed-up alcoholics. She didn’t know if she could make it through another day without going nuts.   

           Gabby primped at her hair. “I’d like to discuss the beauty pageant. I hope you’ll come, Aunt Wilma.”

            “Heavens Dear, that’s a four-day drive to Iowa. I can’t possibly get away for that long.  I’ve got a clothing factory to run.”

           “Could you make me a mini skirt for the pageant? You know, something psychedelic that will go with my floppy hat and knee high boots.  Mom is so old fashioned. Everything I wear is sown by her. Do you think I could barrow your two carat diamond ring and your Russian necklace?”

           Wilma cringed at the thought of the spoiled brat wearing her antique jewelry and thought it was time for her to grow up. “I was in a beauty pageant once, but they disqualified me because my dress was too low-cut and the hem was above my ankles.” 

           Gabby giggled. “That was back in the olden days.”

           “During the roaring twenties women danced in speakeasies and drank bootleg whiskey. Those were the good old days!”

           “If you design my outfit I’ll be the best pick of the bunch.”

           “You’re so stuck up,” her sixteen year old sister said. “That big zit on your nose will probably disqualify you.”

           Gabby gasped and touched her nose. “Kiss off! I’ll cover it with makeup.”

           Bobby snapped. “One more word out of you young ladies and I’ll cut your allowances. As for you Gabby I’ll take away the car keys.”

           “I’ll toast to that,” Tom said, lifting his glass. “If they were my kids I’d give them a good switchin’ in the woodshed.”

           Joe banged his beer bottle against the picnic table. “I wish all I had to worry about was snot-nosed kids. Being an FBI agent is a big responsibility, not to mention the stress of investigating Martin Luther King.”

           Ben sat down across the table from Joe and held out his hand. 

           Joe shook it. 

           “King isn’t a communist threat,” Ben said. He’s an activist that wants former slaves and former slave owners to sit down in fellowship. That’s the reason Wilma and Keisha is having this reunion. They want us Coloreds and Whites to form a brotherhood before tomorrow’s March on Washington.”

           Grace sat beside Ben and fluttered her eyelids at him. “I believe in togetherness no matter the color of anyone’s skin.”

           Joe laughed and took another swig. “You activists and dreamers are all alike. The Civil Rights Act is still not signed by President Kennedy.”

           Ben sipped on a glass of water. “It’s time to end racism. When white and black kids can’t go to the same schools; segregation and discrimination is a serious problem.”

           “Ben, would you like a beer?” Joe asked. 

           “No thanks. I’m working on my Twelve Steps. I joined AA after my little brother was shot and killed by a drive-by shooter. That was two years ago and I haven’t had a drop since." He turned his attention to Wilma. “What do you do for a living?”

            “I own a factory that makes designer clothing. I’ve got a shipment coming from China and it has yet to arrive. Without sewing supplies I’ll have to lay off workers.”    

            “Now we’re getting to the real subject,” Joe slurred. “It’s always about your goddamn money and how it runs our families’ lives!”

           Wilma filled her wine glass and threw the red wine in his face. “You’ll never see any of it.”

           Joe wiped his face with his wine-stained tie.  Bobby gulped down another beer, and Tom slammed down another Gin Ricky.

"Wilma, there's no need for me to tell you to grow up since you're already over the hill," Joe said, "but throwing wine at me was immature."

           Keisha set the empty tray on the picnic table in order to change the subject. “Joe, you had it coming," she said, sitting next to Ben. "Just because you're an FBI agent doesn't give you the right to disrespect women. I may be nothin’ but a cook and housekeeper, but I watch the six o’clock news every night. Those damn politicians don’t care about us former slaves or us Coloreds, and that’s why Martin Luther King wants jobs and housing for everyone no matter the color of their skin.” 

           Joe adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “Well, you may be right about equal rights, but FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover believes King is a liar and influenced by Communists. He’s also a womanizer and is known for his extramarital affairs.”

           Betty sounded disgusted. “Dear, Martin Luther King is a married Christian. I doubt he has affairs outside of marriage.

           “Honey, you are so naïve,” Joe said. “Just because King is a bible-beater doesn’t mean he’s innocent of any wrong-doing. He got arrested a couple of years ago and thrown into jail because of a disruptive demonstration in Albany, Georgia.”

           Bible beater Willa Belle chimed in.  “I heard Billy Graham once bailed King out of jail?”

           “Amen to that!” Keisha said.  “King was arrested because the government doesn’t want him to be successful with the civil rights movement. He isn’t like those crooked politicians who get rich from inside trading and live in lavish mansions overlooking an ocean front. He’s a family man and lives in a modest house with his family.”

           “I think Billy Graham and Martin Luther King are good role models for all races,” Wilma said. 

           “That’s because you’re a bleeding heart democrat,” Joe said.  

           “Let’s leave politics out of this,” Keisha said. “But you are right about Wilma having a good heart! She invited all you folks here for the Freedom March.”       

           Abe came staggering over from the bond fire with an empty tray and a jug of moonshine. “When I was visiting with our kinfolk a stray dog ran off with the ham. All that’s left is the chicken.”

           Keisha grabbed the jug and threw it at him. “Grow up! What a waste of good meat! If you drink one more drop of homebrew I’ll roast you over the fire like a marshmallow!”

           Wilma quickly stood up to deescalate Keisha’s temper and to address the crowd. “Before we eat I want to thank everyone for coming. In the morning a neighbor lady is coming to watch after the youngsters. Following breakfast I have a bus scheduled to pick up grownups and drop us near Lincoln Memorial. Wheelchairs will be available for those who need assistance. No alcohol, or drinking alcohol beverages is allowed on or off the bus. Anyone who does will be kicked off.”            

           “Before I forget,” Ben said, “I got a trunk full of southern cooking. Momma made a crock of black-eyed peas and baked enough cornbread for an army. She also sent along candied yams and three watermelons. Can I get you kids to help me unload the stuff?”

           “I’ll do it!” Butch exclaimed. “I sure love watermelon.”

           Gabby studied her painted nails. “My polish isn’t dry yet.”

           “You’re such a sissy,” Libby said, getting up to help. “I’ve never eaten soul food.”