Miss. Bessie stood at the front window, with stripes of sunlight
on her face. The sun rays
forced? found, a path through the small cracks of the window's blinds.
Miss. Bessie drew
the blinds cord tight, to shut out the outside. She didn't want to
see this morning. The sun,
now was a persistent torture, tweeted her nose like a cat monster thumbing
at a trapped bird
trying to fly. The harsh light's glare blurred all vision, blocked
much sight through her eye
glasses, and began the making of a permanent frown on her brow.
The frown formed deep and fast, as she saw the approaching banker. She
swore under her
breath, "The darn rascal is true to his word."
The hour was barely passed eight thirty, and the tall, nearly bald man,
who walked like his
feet were fire engines at full throttle, came up the front steps and
knocked on Miss.
Bessie's door. Miss. Bessie opened the door, slowly. She glanced at
the banker's smile,
thought of how much the smile spoke with a silent hissing, the sound
a snake makes, and
she looked away. But not before she caught sight of the banker eyes,
twin devil novas,
she thought. His eyes were bright, boiling yellow, not the light
brown that he showed the
world. Eyes --
Miss Bessie's black eyes filled with liquid that captured much of the pain of the last few years.
Miss Bessie was an old lady, and like an old lady she played the game
that old ladies play
with their liquid eyes, to get more days from bill collectors, foreclosure
people and bankers.
She had gotten more days, further and further extensions of time. She
had been the mama
cat playing with the little and young kittens whom the bank sent
to get her to vacate her house.
When the bank sent experienced Tom cats, she clipped the Toms
claws, using her liquid eyes.
But, the banker now present was another kind of cat. He was no kitten,
and like no Tom she'd
ever met. Miss Bessie feared him. She sensed from the moment he'd first
phoned that he was
no cat, but a rat. A big, rascally rat.
"Ma'am," the banker said, coldly. He stood like stone ice, behind
cold, burning, yellow eyes,
"You are still here."
"I'm waiting for my niece to move me," Miss. Bessie answered, speaking
very humbly,
softly, lowly, looking down. "Her husband, as you know, broke his leg,
and she has no body
to help her."
"Ma'am, we've been through this."
"Please, bear with me. Please."
"Why is it, talking to you is like playing ping pong? This back and
forth? Ma'am, if you don't
get out, the sheriff is going to move you, and who needs that? He'll
move your stuff into the
street."
Liquid overwhelmed Miss. Bessie's eyes. A tear dropped from the left
corner of her left
eye, every few seconds, until she found a linen handkerchief in her
apron and wiped the
liquid away. And before she could put her handkerchief down, liquid
began forming again.
Meanwhile, the tall banker mumbled something about being exposed to
every trick in the
book, then he peered over Miss. Bessie's head to look into the house.
"I need to check the house," he said.
"Oh, can't you come back?"
"The sheriff is coming, tomorrow, " he said. "I'm going to check the house."
Miss Bessie wiped several tears from her eyes, blew her nose, mumbled.
"Come in,"
she said. She stepped back from the door way. "But, please be careful
to step over the
threshold."
"Why? Is the floor weak there, now?"
"You must please respect the spirits of this household that lie on guard
at the threshold."
Miss. Bessie wiped her eyes again.
"Brother," muttered the banker. Though wary of Miss. Bessie's eccentricities,
he was
determined not to be put off by her old lady tricks. He entered the
house, boldly, purposefully
planting both his feet down on the threshold and lingering to make
his point.
Miss. Bessie gasped as though she had been poked in the stomach. "Oh,
dear," she said.
"Oh, dear."
The banker stepped into the house and felt a sharp pain on his left
leg, like something was
digging into him with a tiny piercing pick. He shook his pants leg
and screeched, "What!" He
grabbed at whatever it was, and felt it crawling up his thigh. He swatted
the whatever and
shook the leg of his pants, until something fell on the floor.
A bug that appeared to be a roach
had crawled up leg. Now, it lay dead at his foot.
"You've got cockroaches!" he snarled, showing Miss. Bessie the whites of his eyes.
Miss. Bessie's mouth was silent, but the banker heard a whisper in his ear.
"You say something?" he asked.
Miss. Bessie remained still.
The banker heard a buzz.
"The last rude person who entered here."
"What you say, ma'am?"
"Nothing." Miss. Bessie walked away from him.
She went into the next room. He followed. He looked around. He saw no
sign of packing.
The house looked as though the occupant planned to remain a long time.
He asked, "What are you doing?"
She answered, "Chasing away shadows."
"Ma'am," he said, "You are not packed."
"My family built this house in 1867." Liquid dripped-dropped from Miss. Bessie's dark eyes.
"Yeah, it is an old house, too much wood, not brick. No brick is going
to be harder to resell."
The banker spoke like his breath was ice, his heart was ice, his soul
was ice.
"My father put in the bath rooms, and the asphalt roof." Miss. Bessie sobbed.
"Ma'am, the house belongs to the bank."
"A few years back, the roof leaked up stairs in my father's old
room." Miss. Bessie blew
her nose. "The plaster came down. My niece's husband came and fixed
it. He painted over
the ceiling, and he painted over the walls, over ..."
"Ma'am."
"...the pretty wall paper my mother had picked out, in the second year
of her marriage to
my father. Pretty wall paper with roses. My mama loved it. My father
had been dead
three years when my niece's husband painted the wall paper. I ..."
"The sheriff is on his way, ma'am."
"...awoke one morning, heard a sound in his old room. I've lived here
alone since he died,
and I felt there was an intruder in the house. Still, I went into his
room. I was drawn. And
there was my father standing at the wall. 'Where are your mother's
roses?' he asked.
'Wiped off,' I said. He told me to bring them back. I said I would
and he left -"
"Vanished in thin air?" the banker remarked.
Miss. Bessie answered, "Yes."
"Ma'am, I'm sorry for your personal difficulty. This is not pleasant
for me. The fact is that
you co-signed a loan for your niece and used your family's home for
collateral."
Miss. Bessie began to sob, loudly, very loudly. "Mistake, mistake."
The banker nodded.
Miss Bessie blew her nose, calmed a little, begged. "Don't let
anyone know I've lost my
house. I would be too ashamed. Let them think I've sold it."
"No problem." the banker nodded.
"What would the ladies at church think? I'm to be evicted, put out in
the cold on a rainy
day."
"Rain day?" mumbled the banker. "It is going to be sunny all day tomorrow."
"My bunion says it's gonna pour down and rain."
"The problem is not mine, you could leave today on your own."
Miss. Bessie stopped sobbing, wiped her tears. She glared at the banker.
She was angry
and tired of trying to appeal to his heart. She thought, he has no
heart. She told him, "It has
been a long time since I've walked the floor all night, and I've wished
I had been born a man
with a man's strength. I would not have allowed you in here." Miss.
Bessie raised her voice
and gestured with a dramatic stare. She gave a grunt as though she
had lifted a weight. A
light seemed to swirl in her black eyes, like a fire flash spinning
in the sky at dusk. The
banker returned a blank stare, like her dramatics had no effect. Usually,
persons struck
by Miss. Bessie's stare curled up into a furry-like ball and dropped
to the floor like kittens
with no will at all. The banker stayed on his feet, clenched his fists.
Miss. Bessie began to
sort of vibrate. Nothing like this had ever happened before, but somehow
she could relate
to it - perhaps because it was the way it had been with her father.
He'd been the one in
control of every situation, and his powers left her witch-like powers
far behind. Her father
had come the night before, kept her awake, while he warned that
this banker wouldn't be
put off easily.
"Stop!" she begged. "Stop!"
The banker replaced the blank stare with a brief sweet look of
delight, and Miss. Bessie
felt a sheet of ice nettled on the thumping, bleeding muscle that was
her heart. She stumbled,
fell. Icicles were now in her black eyes.
She mumbled, "What kind of man are you?"
He leaned over, watched as she could barely breathe. He helped her to
rest her head against
the couch. Her eyes asked again: Who are you?
"A banker," he said.
"I'm dying," Miss. Bessie sobbed, quietly, nearly breathless.
"I know," the banker spoke gently.
She groaned and shook, as if from a terrible jolt of pain.
The banker said, " I can see how your nephew-in-law got his leg broken.
Most men would be
crippled after exposure to witchcraft like yours, but it is you with
ice sheeting your heart.
Ma'am, it is better this way. You could not live outside this house,
and the bank could not live
with the publicity of kicking out an old lady like yourself."
"But who are?"
Miss. Bessie could barely see now. She thought her last thought: Who are you?
"A banker," the man answered softly, answering the dead. "Ma'am, bankers
know witchcraft
too."
END
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