judypatricia

"There was this time," I said, "when my father and I were in the mall and"
"Oh shut up, Snot," Octavia said.
I stared at Octavia, then rolled my eyes from her to the window. As I watched the trees blur, I wanted nothing more than to be through with it all: the bus ride, the troop, schoolall of it. But we were going home. I'd see the same girls in school the next day. We were on a bus, and there was nowhere else to go.
"Go on, Laurel," Daphne said to me. It seemed like the first time she'd spoken the whole trip, and she'd said my name. I turned to her and smiled weakly so as not to cry, hoping she'd remember when I'd tried to be her friend, thinking maybe that her gift of the journal was an invitation of friendship. But she didn't smile back. All she said was, "What happened?"
I studied the girls, waiting for Octavia to tell me to shut up again before I even had a chance to utter another word, but everyone was amazed that Daphne had spoken. The bus was silent. I gathered my voice. "Well," I said. "My father and I were in this mall, but I was the one doing the staring." I stopped and glanced from face to face. I continued. "There were these white people dressed like Puritans or something, but they weren't Puritans. They were Mennonites. They're these people who, if you ask them to do a favor, like paint your porch or something, they have to do it. It's in their rules."
"That sucks," someone said.
"C'mon," Arnetta said. "You're lying."
"I am not."
"How do you know that's not just some story someone made up?" Elise asked, her head cocked full of daring. "I mean, who's gonna do whatever you ask?"
"It's not made up. I know because when I was looking at them, my father said, 'See those people? If you ask them to do something, they'll do it. Anything you want.' "
No one would call anyone's father a liarthen they'd have to fight the person. But Drema parsed her words carefully. "How does your father know that's not just some story? Huh?"
"Because," I said, "he went up to the man and asked him would he paint our porch, and the man said yes. It's their religion."
"Man, I'm glad I'm a Baptist," Elise said, shaking her head in sympathy for the Mennonites.
"So did the guy do it?" Drema asked, scooting closer to hear if the story got juicy.
"Yeah," I said. "His whole family was with him. My dad drove them to our house. They all painted our porch. The woman and girl were in bonnets and long, long skirts with buttons up to their necks. The guy wore this weird hat and these huge suspenders."
"Why," Arnetta asked archly, as though she didn't believe a word, "would someone pick a porch? If they'll do anything, why not make them paint the whole house? Why not ask for a hundred bucks?"
I thought about it, and then remembered the words my father had said about them painting our porch, though I had never seemed to think about his words after he'd said them.
"He said," I began, only then understanding the words as they uncoiled from my mouth, "it was the only time he'd have a white man on his knees doing something for a black man for free."
I now understood what he meant, and why he did it, though i didn't like it. When you've been made to feel bad for so long, you jump at the chance to do it to others. I remembered the Mennonites bending the way Daphne had bent when she was cleaning the restroom. I remembered the dark blue of their bonnets, the black of their shoes. They painted the porch as though scrubbing a floor. I was already trembling before Daphne asked quietly, "Did he thank them?"
I looked out the window. I could not tell which were the thoughts and which were the trees. "No," I said, and suddenly knew there was something mean in the world that I could not stop.
Arnetta laughed. "If I asked them to take off their long skirts and bonnets and put on some jeans, would they do it?"
And Daphne's voice, quiet, steady: "Maybe they would. Just to be nice."

From "Brownies," by ZZ Packer