Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (28 page)

Jesus, I can probably get away with a couple hundred bucks,
Randall thought.

“Here we be,” announced Jacob, jumping out to open Randall’s door. “Take your time, Mr. Roberts. I’ll be right here waitin’.”

Randall made his way past a rusted Buick station wagon filled to the gills with odds and ends, toward the Villager trailer, and up rickety steps to knock on the tin screen door.

“Y’all goin’ to be lookin’ at the end of a strap if you don’t quit it!” There was a whack and then crying. “Didn’t I tell y’all to stop? Now clean it up!”

A young black woman with a baby on her hip swung open the inner door, thumb in mouth, wearing jeans and a faded halter top, her hair
braided back in thick cornrows, eyeballing Randall and saying, “You Roberts?” before reinserting her thumb.

“Yes, Randall Roberts, and you must be Seritta Turner?” He tried not to react to her thumb-sucking.

“Yeah, but everybody calls me Baby CiCi. C’mon in and take a load off.”

Randall followed her in stunned silence.

“Want somethin’ to drink? I got Mountain Dew and grape drink.”

“No thanks.” A beat passed. “You’re younger than I expected.”

“That’s ’cause the Seritta you’re thinkin’ of is my mamma. This here’s my son T.I., named him after my favorite rapper.” She lit up a Camel, swallowing the smoke.

“He’s quite the charmer,” Randall replied, barely seeing her son. “So CiCi, where’s your mother? I called and made arrangements to meet with her today?”

“Actually, I’m the one you spoke to on the phone.”

A look of shock washed over Randall.

“Yeah, I wrote all them letters. My mamma’s at church still, she been ‘saved’ and whatnot.”

Looking at her appraisingly, Randall replied, “I see.”

The nicotine-stained windows struggled to provide sunlight as he took in the sparse décor of worn car seats, a couch, a La-Z-Boy recliner, an oversize flat screen, and a small mustard Formica table with four chairs.

“Have a seat, ain’t nobody gonna bite,” CiCi teased.

After pushing the Lucky Charms box to the side and wiping the drying spilled milk with a sponge, the evidence of breakfast, she popped open a Mountain Dew and took a swig, then licked her index finger preparing to count her food stamps with her baby on her lap.

“So,” Randall coughed out, “what’s this secret you have for sale?”

“Do I look stupid? You see me countin’ food stamps. How much you payin’ me first?”

Randall hadn’t anticipated hardcore negotiating and was startled by her brazenness.

“I don’t have all day either. I gotta clean up before Mamma gets home from church and you gotta be gone. So?”

“How’s five sound?”

“
T’h
, best be talkin’ ’bout five K and stop wastin’ my time with any other nonsense.”

“Five thousand! How about two?”

“You can’t count? I said five, and in a minute it’s gonna be six.”

“W-w-well, I don’t have that kind of money on me right now.”

“We gotta ATM in town.”

“I can’t take that much cash out all at once.”

“Not my problem,” CiCi said with finality and started to get up.

“Okay, okay. Wait a minute.”

Shifting T.I. into his walker, she asked, “Well?”

“I have two. And Pride-All Taxi wants to be paid in cash.”

“I don’t care ’bout Jacob an’ ’em. I’ll take what you got in your wallet . . . and your watch, and you can stop by the ATM and pay Pride-All on your way back to the airport.”

“This is a Yacht-Master II!” Randall sputtered. “It’s worth way more than five grand!”

“Man, call it whatever you want, it’s a Rolex to me, and my information is worth every penny.”

Knowing she had him over a barrel, Randall reluctantly withdrew his leather billfold. “I’ll give you the cash on the front end and my Rolex
if
you deliver.”

“Please, I ain’t even worried,” CiCi said, closing her eyelids with much attitude, sucking her back teeth while holding out her hand as he peeled off twenty Benjamins.

Unable to take the stifling air any longer, Randall carefully suggested, “Why don’t we sit outside?”

“Okay, but I already feel like I’m on blast with Jacob’s hooptie parked out front. Damn funeral car. So we’re gonna sit out back.”

“Fine,” he agreed, taking shallow breaths.

“Terrell, Pre’tentious, let’s go! Oh and um, can you carry T.I. out while I get his bottle?”

“Ah, sure.”

Awkwardly holding the toddler, Randall followed CiCi to a low wood bench balanced on two milk crates located next to a silver-painted propane tank. The rough-and-tumble five-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, ran off, one skillfully climbing a ladder to the slide while the other got on a swing.

“You kids better play right,” CiCi warned as she fired up another cigarette next to the tank, causing Randall to tense up as he handed her the baby.

“I’ma tan those hides again if I hear y’all fussin’.”

She offered Randall a smoke.

“No thanks, I’m a cigar man, so whaddya got for me?”

Leaning forward, CiCi reached into her back pocket and pulled out a faded
Greenwood Commonwealth
newspaper clipping, handing it to Randall.

The headline announced, “Community Stunned at Beloved Pastor’s Untimely Death.”

Quickly scanning the article, Randall read that Pastor Chester Winslow, “a pillar of Greenwood society,” died due to mysterious circumstances. Below, there was a grainy picture of a young Calysta with an old, dark woman leaving a building. The caption stated,

Beulah Espinetta Jones and her grandmother Candelaria Jones exiting Greenwood police station following questioning. The seventeen-year-old was the last to see Pastor Chester Winslow alive.

Randall held the clipping as if it was a priceless work of art. “May I keep this?”

“After you gimme that watch,” CiCi aggressively reminded him, looking as if she could kick Randall’s butt, baby and all.

“Of course, I’m a man of my word,” he said, fondling his eighteen-karat diamond-faced timepiece. “So are you saying Calysta . . . I mean Beulah . . . had something to do with the pastor’s death?”

“Man, can’t you read? Dude was her daddy,” she drawled, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of her mouth. “Nobody talks about nothin’ ’round here in Greenwood, secrets so thick you can cut ’em with a knife, but everybody been knowin’ Beulah’s a stone-cold killah, poisoned the preacha’.”

Randall’s heart beat double time but he masked his excitement so as not to cause CiCi to ask for his Gucci loafers.

“See, Mrs. Jones had a side business,” CiCi continued. “Everyone and I mean everyone, even the church folk, went to her for those old African root medicines she made. Some kind of voodoo mess, if you ask me.”

“But if it’s true,” Randall interrupted, “why did Beulah kill her father?”

“If?” She exhaled perfect smoke rings that hung in the oppressive heat like angel halos while stomping out the butt beneath her rubber flip-flop. “Man, her daddy was scand-a-lous, that fool loved him some sanctuary sistahs. Most folks thought Winslow got what he deserved, so everyone just looked the other way when the po-po started snoopin’ around. When the dust settled, Beulah bounced. Ain’t been back since. She ain’t no joke, I know that’s right. Old-timers say she got the gift, the ‘knowing.’ Whatevah. You best catch that snake by the head so the rest is rope or you’re gonna be one sorry Mr. Roberts.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

She looked at the yard thoughtfully. “Yep, Beulah bought that swing set for the twins. Just ’cause she in Hollywood she think she all that, I don’t think so. Yeah she makes payments on this property, so what?
That’s chump change f’her. She shoulda’ bought us a house. My mamma’s so loyal to her, that don’t mean I have to be. Shoot, I hate this place and I hate this town. Got dreams too, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Randall nodded his head, egging CiCi on.

“My sister ran off a long time ago, it’s just me doin’ all the cookin’ and cleanin’ lookin’ after those brats. My life ain’t my own. Tired of pullin’ this goddamn weight.” She pointed, saying, “They ain’t mine. Ma had eight kids altogether, four of ’em in foster care right now. I ain’t nevah gonna be like her,
gotta
break before I get caught up. B’sides, I’ma hundred-dolla woman, don’t need no five-dolla man. Everybody ’round here my age got more than one kid and barely knowin’ how to read. Don’t know why you come all this way for this little bit of information, and I don’t mean Beulah any harm, but this here secret is my sure-fire ticket out of Greenwood and in this life you eat what you kill.”

Randall could relate. It was his song but a different tune.

A honk startled them.

“Mr. Roberts, need to get goin’ to make your flight,” Jacob called out.

Giving an “Okay!” in acknowledgment, Randall extended his hand to CiCi and said, “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful. But you still didn’t answer my question. Why did Beulah kill her father?”

“Give me that watch and I’ll tell you,” she said, unclenching the baby’s fist from around her hoop earring.

“Right,” Randall said with a nervous laugh, unsnapping the safety latch, dropping the heavy Rolex into her waiting palm.

“She killed Winslow ’cause he killed her mamma.”

“How?”

“Her mamma died giving birth to Beulah.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Well, like I said, you’ve been very helpful.”

“You know, me and my mamma watch
The Rich and the Ruthless
every day. You think when I get outta here you can hook me up?”

“Sure, give me a call when you get to town.”

“Don’t act like you don’t know me when I show up, now. And is Derrick Taylor as sexy as he seems?”

“Uh-huh,” Randall replied, picking up momentum.

“And tell Emmy Abernathy I’m her biggest fan,” she yelled out before returning to the comfort of sucking her thumb.

“Will do.”

Jacob closed the car door as Randall exhaled, while CiCi plucked the cash out of her halter, marveling at her future.

“Jacob, do you know Candelaria Jones by any chance?” Randall asked as they pulled off.

“Know her? Why Miss Candelaria is a beloved pillar of this community, known her all my life.”

“Does she live close by?”

“Sure does. She ain’t around today though, I drove her myself to the Greyhound station out on Highway 82 a few days ago. She went to visit her granddaughter Beulah in Hollywood. You know she’s a big-time actress out there on my favorite story,
The Rich and the Ruthless.
”

“You don’t say? It’s mine too. What a coincidence. Do you think we could drive by Mrs. Jones’s place on our way back to the airport?”

“No problem. Miss Candy got herself a nice place out there on Money Road. And Beulah helped pay off that mortgage . . . girl’s a
Jet
centerfold if I evah saw one. Greenwood sure is proud of her. But we ain’t seen her for some time now ’cept for those tabloids. Matter of fact, just saw her face on the front of
Cliffhanger Weekly
at Piggly Wiggly. She workin’ so daggone hard she done got herself in some kinda pickle out there in Hollywoodland.”

“Pickle?” Randall asked innocently.

“Mm-hmm. You didn’t hear it from me ’cause I ain’t one to gossip,
but Miss Candy told me she had to rush out there and help Beulah with some trouble she was havin’ with her constitution, seems she has ‘nerves.’”

“Really?” Randall smirked. “Hollywood can be so cruel.”

“She just goin’ a little too fast that’s all, needs to slow down some. She done run over herself, poor thing. You know how young folk do.”

Driving slowly along the Yazoo River before turning, Jacob pointed out Cottonlandia. “That’s our museum and don’t let the name fool ya either, it’s not just about cotton, it has all kinds of art and native stuff. And up on the left? Church of the Solid Rock, that’s where Pastor Winslow preached. And over there to your right is my barber and Pride-All Taxi Service,” Jacob said with a big grin.

“Nice,” Randall said, checking the time on a watch no longer there, only the evidence of a tan line.

“Here we are. This here is Miss Candy’s house,” announced Jacob, rolling to a stop in her driveway.

Her nosy neighbor Miss Whilemina was leaning out the window, forearms resting on a pillow just above a patch of climbing sweet peas.

“What you doin’ ’round here, Jacob?”

“Afternoon, Miss Whilemina, just passin’ through, this man wanted to see Miss Candy’s place, that’s all.”

“Well she ain’t here! And her property ain’t for sale and neither is mine! You developers come ’round here all the time tryin’ to steal our homes, talkin’ mess! Make me sick . . .” She fussed as she grabbed her pillow and slammed the window shut.

Voulez-vous coucher
-ing it back to the Greenville airport, compliments of Patti La Belle’s pipes, Jacob said, “Sorry ’bout that, Mr. Roberts. She’s a little sensitive. Times been tough on everyone, folks been losing their homes. People work real hard around here to own a patch of dirt. They get suspicious when strangers like you show up. Just last year a developer bought up a whole bunch of old houses, knocked ’em down, and sold the land for ten times what he paid!”

“Awful,” Randall murmured.

“I hope Miss Whilemina didn’t spoil your Greenwood visit any,” Jacob added. “Folks is real friendly here. Wouldn’t want you to go back with a bad taste in your mouth.”

“Not at all,” Randall reassured him, pulling the newspaper clipping out of his inside lapel pocket. “I can honestly say Greenwood was everything I’d hoped for.”

S
hannen blissfully sang to country music star Heidi Newfield’s “Johnny and June” before asking, “Did you sleep okay, Mrs. Jones?” as she popped four vitamins, swishing them back with half a bottle of Save the Glaciers water.

“Did I ever!” exclaimed Candelaria. “I don’t mean to be nosy but why you takin’ all them pills?”

“They’re my vitamins!”

“Only gonna give you pricey pee. I could fix you some collards that’d do more than them pills could evah do. But to answer your question, I feel like new money! Slept like a baby, sure did, but do you think we could stop and put the top up before I lose my hat and wig and catch a death of cold?”