Daddy told Mama to shut her damn mouth when she said that people owning people was wrong, always had been, and always would be.  He said she didn’t know what in the hell she was talking about and, anyway, that was the way it was in Morgan in them days –nobody owned nobody but somebody had to pick the damn cotton.  I had no idea what they were talking about, and didn’t want him yelling at me like that, so I kept quiet.  It seemed I lived my life scrunched in a corner or behind a couch listening to adults argue with each other and talk about everybody else.  When I tired of it all, I skipped down the dirt road to play with my best friend Olive. 

Olive’s family was one of those families Mama talked about that still felt owned even though nobody owned them really; it just seemed that way.  Men had owned her people a hundred years before Olive was born, but something said she wasn’t free, still.  Like buying an old coat every year.  You know the coat’s old no matter how many times you say it’s new. 

Daddy had no idea I ever played with Olive; he would’ve put a stop to it then and there had he known.  Even if nobody owned her people, in most minds friendship with each other was wrong.  I didn’t know why it was wrong, just that it was, but I also knew not to question.  If I did, I’d get in a world of trouble for it. 

Olive and I had a secret spot along the red clay road between our houses.  A huge batch of honeysuckle ran along the edge of the woods where we could squat in the vines and suck juice from flowers while we talked about the different ways our folks did things.  We loved it.  And we loved each other, no matter what people said.  Olive’s mama didn’t care if we played together or not.  She even made cookies for us to eat when we were at our “playhouse” pretending to be mothers to our dolls.  We sometimes forced Olive’s little brother, Cato, to be the daddy but we made him work too hard at being a good daddy so he didn’t often want to play with us.

Sometimes my daddy came home late, angry, and smelling like whiskey.  On those nights, he hurled dishes through the house and jerked the tablecloth off the table.  I sneaked out the window and ran to Olive’s house where it felt safe.  Olive’s folks left the doors open at night because of the constant southern heat so I had no problem getting inside where I’d sit on the floor beside her bed and cry, while she rubbed her hand across my hair and said, Now, Now, it’ll be all right, over and over, until I fell asleep. 

Olive’s house had cracks in the floor between the boards, so we could peek through and watch the mice, even tie cheese to strings and hang it through the cracks to feed them, figuring they had to get hungry hiding under there.  Mama said having mice was awful but they were so cute trying to get the cheese from the string that I forgot her warning about diseases.  I couldn’t see that they carried anything.  The years were hard but they were good years, too, mostly because of Olive and her family.  That is, until life, as it really was, cut in on us and we had to grow up overnight even though we weren’t ready.

One day, while sucking flowers and pretending I was the rich woman with the cotton plantation and Olive was my maid she suddenly stuck her hip out, planted a little fist on it, and spouted that she was going to be the rich woman and I had to be her maid for a change.  Well!  That wouldn’t do at all.

“That ain’t real life, Olive.  We’re playing real life, not pretend.  You got to be the maid and I got to be the rich lady.”  I couldn’t believe she was saying such a thing.

She stepped toward me with fire in her eyes.  “I ain’t got to be nobody’s maid no more.”  With that remark, she shoved me; I lost my balance and fell backward into the honeysuckle patch.  Mice scampered, leaving dirty little feet prints on my flowered dress.  I thought I’d die from diseases if they didn’t get off me.  By the time we’d stopped fighting and I’d managed to free myself from the vines, my face red from heat and anger, I was furious with Olive and no longer wanted her as my friend.

She said “I don’t care” and we stomped off, going our separate ways, now and again looking back to see what the other was doing.  I wanted to turn around and tell her I was sorry but I didn’t know what it was I‘d done to make her so angry.

When I slammed into the house, crying and fussing to myself, I met Mama.  “What in the world happened to you?  Your dress is filthy.  And it‘s torn.”  She angrily grabbed a section of sleeve.

“Olive!  She pushed me down and I probably got disease from the mice.  I hate her and I don’t never want to play with her again.  She’s just mean.”  I wanted Mama to hug me and tell me it would be okay, but she didn’t.  She sighed and turned away from me, her old dishrag flapping in the wind as she walked and talked at the same time. 

“I told you not to play with them people, Jessie.  They ain’t like us.”  Then she turned around, looked at me, and settled a clenched fist on her hips, just as Olive did.  I didn’t like it when she posed that way.  It made me feel unimportant.  I felt obliged to defend Olive a bit, even though I was still angry with her.

“She ain’t different from us.  We act just the same and think the same.  She’s just mean, that’s all.”  I still hoped she would hug me.

She glared at me.  “Jessie Mae, you’re the most frustrating child I ever seen.  You don’t never listen to a thing I say.  I told you and told you at least a million times to leave that little black girl alone.  It ain’t right to play with folks like that.  Can’t nothing but bad come out of it.”  Mama seemed to be mad at me, and I didn’t feel I’d done anything wrong to make her angry.

“It don’t make no sense, though, Mama.  Why do friends have to be the same color?  I ain’t never seen nobody that’s white.  So how can I have white friends?  Huh?  Tell me that, hateful.”  I was serious.  She was, too.  Slapped my mouth before I saw it coming.

“Shame on you, young lady.  You ought to have the daylight beat out of you for saying such things and calling me names.”  Her face was red and I knew I’d gone too far, but I couldn’t stop my mouth from opening.

“Well, ain’t nobody I know of that’s white.”  I held my hands out to her in desperation, shoulders jutted up like a question.  “Daddy’s red and you got pink on you, and me and Darthy’s got brown dots everywhere and Bobby’s tan.”  I closed my eyes for her next slap but nothing happened.  She turned around and walked away.  My mouth felt fat and hot.  I was sad because I got no hug.

I pined for Olive, mostly at night when nobody could see me cry.  When Mama told Daddy what she’d done–pushed me down and got my dress dirty–he stomped out of the house and down the road.  I figured he was going to tell Olive’s mama what she’d done to me, and she’d make Olive say she was sorry, so I followed him.  However, he didn’t do that.  He incinerated our play home with his cigarette lighter.  When I saw what he was doing, I cried until I threw up.  I pleaded with him not to murder the animals but he told me to hush my whining and get my butt back to the house or he’d beat the tar out of me.  I went home and sulked for days, hoping he’d feel bad about burning up all that honeysuckle, and especially for hurting the mice and lizards, but he didn’t care.  Grownups didn’t seem to care about a thing but themselves, as I saw it.

A long time passed before I saw Olive again.  I was downtown with Mama and she was across the street with her mama.  White folks stayed on one side of the street in those days and Olive’s people stayed on the other side, except on Saturday when the whites stayed home and let them have the town.  I didn’t understand why they did that but also understood enough about what was going on not to ask questions.  We watched each other from across the street but we didn’t smile.  Something inside me ached, though, the way a toothache throbs.  I didn’t know what to do about it, since the whole thing was her fault: hitting me and getting my dress dirty.  If it hadn’t been for her, Daddy wouldn’t have burned the honeysuckle.  It was her fault, too, that the animals lost their homes or had to move.  I wouldn’t consider they might have died.  I wouldn’t speak to her and she deserved it.  Still, I was sad.

Daddy smelled like whiskey and sounded angry with Mama one night so I started to climb out the window, remembered that I couldn‘t go to Olive‘s house any more, and smashed my pillow over my head so they couldn’t hear me cry, furious with her all over again.  Here I was, afraid and needing my friend, and she’d messed everything up, just because she wanted to be the rich woman.  I decided I’d never have a friend that didn’t exactly match me.  Mama was right; Olive didn’t appreciate me; she turned on me, wanting to be the rich woman and take away my rights.  Daddy said we had rights and we‘d better by god never let anybody take them away.  Now I understood what he meant.  Everybody knew the rich woman had to be white and her maid Olive’s color.  That’s the way it had always been.  I was still unhappy, and still missed my friend.

A year later, on a walk with my dog Buddy, I came to the honeysuckle patch where Olive and I used to play.  My heart felt like it bloomed right there.  I couldn’t believe my eyes!  Honeysuckle was everywhere, bigger and fluffier than it had ever been.  I knew God must have remade it so the critters could have warm, sweet smelling homes and not have to wander around searching for them.  I jumped into the vines and rolled with the mice and lizards, not caring at all about my stupid dress.  Buddy bounced all over, yapping and chasing lizards.  It was wonderful to be happy again.  Then, I remembered Olive, and it suddenly didn’t matter that she’d hit me, or why she had.  I had a fleeting thought it could’ve been my fault.  After all, I wouldn’t let her be the rich woman when she wanted to and it would be awful if you always had to be the maid and never the rich woman.  What difference did it make, anyhow, who was what? 

I scrambled from the vines and took off, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.  Olive would be so happy to see me, to learn she could finally be the rich woman.  When I rounded the curve, I stopped.  I couldn’t get my bearings.  My brain whirled chaotically as if it were lost and unable to work.  Olive’s house was gone.  It had burned to the ground.  The only thing left was a little bit of cinder block, a chimney, and black, charred wood.  I screamed her name and ran toward the horror, praying she’d answer me.  Olive was gone. 

Mama said Olive’s house burned months back and they’d moved away but she didn’t know where, it wasn’t our business anyhow.  “They weren’t like us, Jessie.”

I couldn’t sleep for thinking about Olive, reliving how I’d refused to be her friend the right way for so long.  God took her away and now it was too late.  I tried to cry in my pillow so nobody would hear, but Darthy heard and slapped me because I bothered her.  Even Darthy couldn’t rile me, though.  I was too furious with myself to be angry with her.  My only friend was gone.  There’d never be another one like her, not for me.  All because my people used to own her people and I wouldn’t let her be the rich lady.  I hated my people right then.

One day, I was playing “Doodlebug, Doodlebug” beneath the living room window which was open because of the heat, and heard my mama and daddy talking.  They were deciding which bills to pay this month and which ones to put off until next month, fussing about which one spent too much money.  I hadn’t spent any money, so I didn’t worry about being in trouble.  Mama fussed at him about how mean he was to people.

“You was even mean to Jessie, doing what you did to her friend; even if they ain’t like us, they ought to be treated decent.”  I couldn’t think of a friend he’d been mean to.  The only one I ever had was Olive and I didn’t have her any longer.

“I don’t want no sass from you, woman.”

Mama snapped back.  “I ought to tell Jessie what you done to Olive’s house.”

Daddy jumped up and I shut my eyes and covered my ears.  I figured he’d hit her for being smart-mouthed but he didn’t.  He stood over her threatening to beat the hell out of her if she didn’t shut her stupid mouth.  She kept on.  “It weren’t bad enough you had to burn up the honeysuckle so they didn’t have no place to play.  Oh, no!  You got to go and burn down that child’s house.”

I heard her but it didn’t make sense.  How could he burn down a house?  I shook my head to get the words out of my brain but they stayed, static, burned in.  Carved.

Daddy stomped to the kitchen mumbling they deserved it; he’d do it again if he had half a chance.  Mama told the truth!  My own daddy burned down my friend’s house.  My own daddy!  How could a daddy do such a thing?  I couldn’t stand it any longer so I stood up and peered through the window.

“Daddy!  You burn down Olive’s house?”  My heart pounded.  At first I thought I’d die, but I feared getting stiff and hard the way dead people get more than dying so I kept on living.  Daddy whirled toward the window, fist in mid-air, ready to hit me.  He couldn’t though, because I was outside and the window had a screen.  I ducked, from habit I guess.

“You ain’t supposed to be hiding out there listening in on people’s talks.  Get your tail in here right now, young lady.”

I stood in front of him, staring straight into his eyes.  I had a way of staring people down and making them give in.  He didn’t give in to my way though.  Instead, he turned me across his knee and thrashed me with my own hairbrush, then ordered me to get to my room and stay there until he said I could come out.

Mama nagged, “She didn’t do nothing wrong.  You’re the mean one, burning up houses just because you don’t like somebody.  Next thing you know you’ll be burning ours down.” 

It was a bad night.  Mama ended up in as much trouble as I did, and neither one of us felt we’d done anything wrong.  I thought about it all night, wondering how he did it, why he did it, and what happened to Olive and her brothers and sisters.

Morning was no better.  Mama had a swollen nose and pouted at Daddy.  He was mad at me because now I knew how awful he was, though I already knew, but a person has to be mean as a snake to burn houses.  I ate without saying anything as long as I could, then dropped my fork, and glared.

“How come you burn down Olive’s house?”  I stuck my chin up to show how serious I was. 

He didn’t bother looking at me, kept slurping his food, making horrible smacking noises I hated, and left the table.  I followed, knowing I was treading on dangerous ground.

“It was my fault, Daddy.  It weren’t Olive’s.”

“Don’t matter.  There’s right, there’s wrong, and hitting my kid’s wrong.  Lest I do it.”

That was it.  No more explanations.  I knew to stop asking questions.  When I looked at Mama, my hands outstretched for help, she shrugged.  I thought my heart would break.  I thought about the agony Olive and her family suffered watching their home burn to the ground.  What happened to the dogs and cats that slept inside?  Did they burn up, too?

I couldn’t sleep that night, so I eased out of bed and tiptoed into their room, put my hand on Mama’s shoulder and shook her gently.  “Mama, I need to talk to you.”  I whispered so not to wake Daddy.

She shushed me with a slender finger to her lips and slipped out of bed.  We went to the kitchen; she put on coffee so we could talk.  Mama couldn’t talk without coffee.  She loved it.  I decided I’d learn to love it, too, because I needed to be like her, the only good in life I knew.

“I can’t go on living knowing my friend might need me.”  My chin quivered but I worked hard not to cry.

“She’ll be all right, Jessie.  She’s got a mama and daddy that’ll take care of her.  Ain‘t no need of you going on so; ain‘t nothing you can do about it.”

“But I need to make it up to her.  I’m not mad at her no more and I need to tell her.  She needs to be the rich lady.”

“The rich lady?  What on earth are you talking about?”

“When we played plantation she had to be the maid so I could be the rich lady and she wanted to be the rich lady for a change but I didn’t let her and she got mad and that’s

why she pushed me down.  I want her to know how it feels to be the rich lady.”

“She’ll find out someday, Jessie.”

“No she won’t, neither.  People won’t never let her find out.  They ain’t nice to Olive and I don’t know why.  Mama, please help me find out where they went to.”

She looked at me, brushed a strand of hair from my eyes, and smiled her sweet smile. 

When she did that, my whole world lit up.  It was as if the sun popped up before the dark was gone.  I knew that Mama felt, deep down, the same way I did about Olive and her family, and that she would end up helping me find them.  Nobody else would, though.  I didn’t dare let Daddy know.  He didn’t like her being my friend in the first place, and now he’d done a horrible thing and I almost hated him for that.  I needed to find her and tell her I loved her and wanted to be her maid.  I needed to do it.  Mama agreed to ask around the next day.

“Maybe somebody’ll know where they went.  I’m sorry your daddy don’t understand, Jessie, but I do.  I hope that makes it a little bit better.”

“It does, Mama.”

“I had a friend one time like Olive and my daddy didn’t want us being friends, neither.  But we slipped around so nobody would know.”

A far-away look visited in her eyes and I knew she was thinking about that friend.  I wondered who her friend was and where she’d gone, but knew also to let it be.  If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me.  That’s the way she was.  I wanted to hug her but remembered that our family didn’t hug.  Olive’s family did.  They even hugged me.  That’s how I knew how it felt for somebody to hold me for good reasons.

A couple of weeks later, Mama came home from the grocery store and called, “Jessie, come and help me put up the groceries.”  I could tell by the sound of her voice she had good news and was pretending she needed my help.  Darthy and Daddy didn’t hear that in her voice because I was the only one who could hear sounds in voices that weren’t in the words.  Sometimes I could tell what people were thinking by how they said their words, or how they looked at me.  I ran in and slid across the floor.

“You find out something?”  I stood stiffly, waiting.

“Where’s your daddy and them?”

“Outdoors.”

“Down the Parker Road about two miles.  They got a better house over there so your daddy messed up bad if he was trying to hurt them.”

I could’ve flown like a bird down Parker Road to Olive’s house but had to wait until after supper when daddy went to work.  Mama could settle down and sew our clothes and I could ride Darthy’s bike down there.

Waiting was hard.  I waved at Daddy as he drove off, then headed down the road, singing songs Olive taught me when I ran to her house on those nights I’d been afraid.  Mama told the truth.  Their new house was nicer than the other one.  It had glass in the windows and a door that closed.  I wondered if there were cracks in the floor.  If not, I bet Olive felt sad about not being able to feed the mice.  I rode into the clean swept yard and vaulted off the bike while it rolled, hollering Olive’s name.  Cato came out.  He looked angry and it made me nervous.

“Hey, Cato.  I need to see Olive.”

He turned and left me standing there.  Olive came out.  She stood on the porch; arms folded in front of her.  “What you want?”

“Hey, Olive.”  I tried to smile but my lips quivered.

“Don’t give me none a your grinning, girl.  I said!  What you want?”

“I just come to say I’m sorry.”

“What you sorry for? 

“I’m sorry for what my daddy did.  He was bad to do that and I’m sorry he did.  I told him I was mad at him for it.”

“What else you sorry for?”  Her arms relaxed a bit.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you be the rich lady.”

“I don’t wanta be no rich lady.”

“Well, I wanta be your maid.”

She just stood there, staring at me.  My heart pounded so I knew she could hear it.

“Olive, I don’t want no friend but you.  Please, can we forgive and forget?”  I’d heard Mama say people had to forgive, forget, and let-sleeping dogs lay.  I didn’t know about sleeping dogs but did understand what forgiveness and forgetting meant.  I wanted Olive to forgive me and forget the bad things I did to her.  Especially what my daddy did.

“I guess I loves you, too, girl.”  A smile spread across her face.

I ran to her.  We hugged and giggled, then went inside where her mother had been watching through the window.  She opened her arms and I melted into them.  It was so wonderful to be back with Olive and her family.  I looked at her mama.  “My mama said she used to have a friend like Olive when she was a little girl, too.”

She smiled and turned toward the kitchen.  “I guess you girls want some milk and cookies to take to that honeysuckle patch?”

Cato ran in yelling somebody was in the yard asking for his mama.  Olive’s mama glanced outside.  Her face turned pale.  “Well, I be . . . .”  She whispered, “Girl, what in the world you doing here?” 

When the screen door slammed behind her, I heard the honeyed voice I loved so much.  “I missed my old friend.” 

We filed out onto the porch and my mama looked at me.  “Don’t you never tell your daddy I come here, Jessie.”

It was hard to see with my eyes so full of water.

“I won’t, Mama.  I sure won’t.”