35

THE MASHED POTATOES

Since I’d gotten to Los Angeles, I’d mailed the postcards and been sending Mom and Daisy daily e-mails, but that night, because I’d started missing them, I asked if I could call. Bibi said, “Of course.”

“I went to the Hollywood sign,” I bragged to Daisy.

“The Hollywood sign? You brat,” she said playfully.

In the background, I heard Wyatt yell, “Viva la Hollyweird!”

He is so strangely odd!

“Can I talk to Mom?” I asked.

“Hey, Mom! The world traveler’s on the line! Pick up, please!” D hollered.

“Hello, V.” The sound of Mom’s voice was better than dessert.

“Hi, Mom,” I replied, and rattled off the events of the day.

“Sounds like you’re having a great time.”

“I am . . . and I met some of my dad’s cousins, and Bibi’s Sisters in the Lord at church—”

Mom interrupted, “Bibi? Who’s Bibi?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Bibi is what I call Roxanne. It means ‘grandmother’ in Swahili. I like it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I like it.” I pictured the smile I knew was on Mom’s face.

“And like I told you yesterday,” I rattled on, “Disneyland was fun except for Ahmed, plus I’ve been taking lots of pictures . . . Is Hazel okay?”

Mom giggled. “Hazel is fine.”

“Thanks for taking care of her for me.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie pie. What do you two have planned for tomorrow?” Mom asked.

“Bibi is going to teach me how to paint, but I don’t think it’s something I can learn in just a day . . . Are Gam and Poppy okay, too?”

“They miss you.”

I asked to talk to them, but Mom told me they’d gone to the movies.

“Well, make sure they know I’ll be home on Saturday. Are you all coming to the airport like you said?” I asked.

“Yes, and D’s been nagging me to go to Serious Pie, so we’re going there afterward.”

“Cool and awesome . . . and one last thing. Bibi is flying back to Seattle with me because she wants to keep me company. She already bought her ticket. I just wanted you to know. Do you think she can go to Serious Pie with us?”

“Fine by me,” Mom replied.

“Okay. See you on Saturday. Bye.”

“I love you, V.”

“Love you, too . . . Bye.”

I hung up the phone and headed down the hallway to the kitchen, where Bibi was cooking dinner. “I told my mom that you’re flying back with me and we’re all going to Serious Pie!” I yelled out excitedly, and when I turned the corner to the kitchen, the mixer bowl filled with mashed potatoes was spinning like a merry-go-round.

“Sounds like a plan, V.”

When she turned off the mixer, I stuck my finger inside, scooped up a taste, and put it in my mouth. “Yummy . . . What else are we having?”

“I have a pork loin on the grill. You like pork?”

“Yep, but what’s a loin?”

“Long piece of pork that can be cut into steaks. I marinated it last night . . . And there’s a salad that’s waiting on you to put it together.” Bibi pointed with her chin toward the counter. “I’m sure you know how to slice tomatoes and avocados. The lettuce is already washed.”

I washed my hands and rolled up my sleeves. “Do you have any red onion? Because red onion tastes good with avocado and tomato.”

“I’m sure I do. Check the vegetable bin.”

I rummaged through the bin and finally found one. “Voilà,” I proclaimed like a magician.

Bibi went outside to get the loin, and when she came back in, I was busy on the salad. “You’re quite a little cook, aren’t you?” she commented as she sliced the pork.

“I’m learning. A few weeks ago, Athena’s gramma taught us how to make meat and macaroni pie. I could teach you, but it takes, like, all day.”

“Who’s Athena?”

“My best friend. She’s Greek. Her gramma is staying with them because her mom just had a new baby. Mrs. Matsoukis, that’s Athena’s gramma, says we’re all one human race . . . just in different colors.”

Bibi stopped slicing and shook her head.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s not so simple, Violet. White folks made the race laws in the first place, and our history is complicated.”

“Oh . . . well, she lives in Greece, so she can’t change any American laws.”

“Your friend’s grandmother is right . . . in a perfect world, we are all flesh and blood, the same species, one race, the human race. But this isn’t a perfect world and most people insist on holding on to the many-race concept. I want you to be realistic, Violet. At this moment in time, on this planet Earth, in the eyes of most, even though you have a white mother, you are considered to be black. Do you understand me?”

“Yep, I really do. But if that’s what you think, that we’re all one race, why didn’t you want my dad and mom to get married?”

“I don’t feel that way anymore. In the past years, I’ve learned a lot. Now I realize, who am I to tell God who to join as one? Who am I to tell another person whom to love? My evolution was beginning right before you were born.”

“I know. Mom told me about the letter you wrote but never got mailed.”

Bibi glanced in my direction. “Did she tell you everything?”

“There’s more?”

Bibi stopped cooking and sat down. “You’re probably too young to understand.”

I shrugged.

“After your father died, I got sick.”

“Were you in the hospital?”

“Yes, a special hospital for people whose minds are broken. I was very depressed. I was in and out of that hospital several times. Then I ran away, traveled the world to try and forget.”

“To forget my dad?” I asked.

“To forget the hurt.”

“You seem okay now.”

“I’m better. Time has been kind.” Bibi hung her head. “I’m sorry, Violet. I was selfish, only thinking of myself, pretending you were better off without me. I told myself you didn’t need me. There were many times I wanted to see you, call you, and there were days I promised myself to but didn’t. I had myself convinced you had a nice life up there in Washington. You do, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“I know you’re still a child, so I don’t expect you to understand all of this, but sometimes people make a mistake for so long that it starts to feel like it’s not a mistake at all. And then one day, you tell yourself it’s for the best.” Bibi patted my arm. “Life had given me some roadblocks, but losing your father was my Waterloo.”

“What’s that mean?”

“My defeat.”

Except for the sound of a siren in the distance, there was silence.

“In my nightly prayers, you were always at the top of my list. Always. I’m not perfect, Violet. Nowhere near perfect. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes,” I replied.

Bibi pulled me to her, hugging me tight, and I hugged her back. The hug felt like love—love as good as Gam’s and Poppy’s. And afterward I felt so filled up with love, it was as if it was about to burst out of the top of my skull.

Right then, it seemed like a good time to change the subject to something happy, so I did. “Do you have a secret ingredient for your mashed potatoes? Most old people have secret ingredients in their recipes.”

“So I’m old people?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

She smiled without showing her teeth and I could see a twinkle in her eyes. “You can’t un-ring a bell, Violet.”

I figured that one out fast. “Once it’s done, you can’t undo it, right?”

“Right. As for the mashed potatoes, I like to sneak in a little garlic and a pinch of fresh rosemary . . . gives it some zing.”

“Thanks. Mashed potatoes are one of my favorite things.”

“Mine too,” she commented, then added, “Did you know they used to have a dance called the Mashed Potatoes?”

“Seriously?”

“Yep, and a song to go with it. I think I still have that record in my stack of forty-fives.”

“What’s a forty-five?”

“A forty-five RPM. One record, two songs . . . an A side and a B side.”

“Can we listen to it?”

Bibi bolted from the kitchen to the living room and I followed. She pulled open a cabinet and slid out a shelf that had a bunch of black discs.

“Wow, old records? Can I see?”

“Sure. But be careful. Some of them are almost as old as me,” she said with a wink.

“I found it!” I shouted. “‘Mashed Potato Time’ by Dee Dee Sharp.” I flipped the record over. “And the B side is a song called ‘Set My Heart at Ease.’”

She snapped a yellow plastic thing into the center of the record.

As if she was reading my mind, Bibi said, “It’s called a spider.”

Soon, the record was spinning and music filled the room.

“Show me the dance,” I begged. “Is it hard?”

“No . . . it’s so easy, almost anyone could do it.” Bibi slipped off her shoes, got a little up on her toes, and, keeping time with the music, started mashing and turning her feet like someone trying to smash a bug over and over. She took me by the hands and in no time I was doing the Mashed Potatoes. When the record ended, we played it again. Bibi was smiling so big that her gums showed. I wondered if mine were showing, too.

After dinner, we sat in the living room, playing her favorite 78 RPMs, which were bigger than 45s and had a lot of songs, like a CD does. Nat King Cole, Nina Simone, Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday, and Nancy Wilson.

“Now, this is music,” Bibi told me as the sun set.

Maybe, like Bibi’s mashed potatoes, life has special ingredients, too—times that make it more special—stuff that gives it more zing. I closed my eyes and stored this time with her in my memory. And later, I promised myself, I’d start a new list. A list of times I will always remember.