The Painted Table(46)

Her parents are in the bedroom. What’s keeping them? Her father said little when he picked her up at the bus last night. This morning they shared a breakfast of cold cereal, and again, he gave no clue as to why she was told to come home. She guesses that it was not his idea. April, he told her, stayed overnight with a friend.

As she waits, she wonders what they will want to know about college life. Her letter mentioned a number of things she is eager to elaborate on, especially her classes. Not that she has ever been in the habit of sharing with them, but now she hopes to be more open, more adult to adult.

She hears a slow shuffle coming down the hall.

“Sit down, Saffee.”

Saffee is stunned by Joann’s appearance. Her longish dark hair falls free, unkempt. She wears an old, matted chenille robe and supports her body with a crutch.

“Mother. What happened?”

“You mean you don’t even remember my car accident? You know very well my broken ankle never healed right.”

Saffee wants to mention that the accident was long ago and for years there has seemed to be no need for a crutch. She connects the track on the floor to her mother dragging one foot.

Nels and Joann settle themselves.

“Sit down, Saffee,” Joann repeats and gives Nels a distinct glare, which tells Saffee she wants him to conduct the proceedings, “as a father should.”

Nels is nervous, gruff, and to the point. “Your mother, we, don’t want you datin’ no colored boys,” he blurts.

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me.”

Saffee stares from one to the other.

“That’s why you made me ride more than four hours on the bus? Date, as you say, ‘colored’ boys? What are you talking about? I haven’t even met any.”

Nels looks relieved. Joann looks skeptical. Saffee realizes they must have thought the linebacker she had written about was a Negro. He wasn’t.

“Those . . . southern girls introduced you. You wrote it in your letter,” Joann says. “Get it straight now, we won’t allow it!” Saffee knew Joann’s intention that Nels lead the conversation would not last.

“Mother, you’ve got it wrong. I haven’t gone out with a Negro, but don’t you want me to get along with everybody at school?”

“Getting along is one thing—dating is another,” retorts Joann. “We’re talking Negroes here and you’ve been fraternizing with them.”

Saffee winces; she is committed to telling the truth. She represses last spring’s conversation when she insisted there was nothing “wrong” with Joann. “No, I haven’t.” Saffee looks appealingly at her dad, who sits with head bowed, pinching the bridge of his nose. She wonders if either of her parents has ever even spoken to a person of color.

Joann straightens and tilts her face, posturing regal authority. “Sapphira! You are an astonishment!” Her pitch rises. “One’s appearance, manner, and behavior should not bring disgrace to one’s church, family, school, or God! Sapphira, you have not lied to man but to God.”

“What?” Saffee feels sick to her stomach. Moments blur. “Sapphira? Who’s Sapphira?”

“I know by your name that you are a liar,” Joann insists. She turns to Nels and orders him to get her Bible.

“Aw, Joann, just let ’er be. She says—”

“Get my Bible, Nels!”

He looks at Saffee apologetically and retrieves the book from the bedroom. Joann quickly flips through the pages. Saffee sees they have been heavily annotated.

“Look here, Sapphira . . .”

“Mother, why are you calling me that? You know that’s not my name.”

“Here you are, right here—read this.” She thrusts the worn book toward Saffee, indicating an area marked with red crayon. Joann’s unmistakable scrawl almost obliterates many of the words, and sections of the page are shaded with green or yellow.

Saffee reads about a woman named Sapphira, who, after lying, falls down dead. Saffee is speechless. She has been reading the Bible, because of Gloria’s encouragement, and has found it instructive and encouraging. How can her mother misuse it? Her mother is not merely eccentric, she is seriously crazy.

Nels clears his throat with a nervous, rough growl.

“See what happens to liars?” Within Joann’s irrationality is a note of triumph.

“Mother, you’ve sent me to a school where there are all kinds of people. They come from all over the country, even the world, and I think they are all quite wonderful—with probably lots to teach me.” She is fuming. “It never occurred to me to go out with somebody brown, or pink, or green, but actually, I don’t know why not.” She is careful not to say she won’t. She needs to think about it.