Her Big Hair Nearly Killed Me
By Harry McDonald
Copyright 2011 By Harry McDonald
Smashwords Edition
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I met Desdemona in Tupelo. She stood in front of a department store with a shopping bag on the pavement in front of her, and rubbing the corner of one eye with her knuckles, as if there were tears. I did say as if. There had never been an more obvious ploy for attention. I watched for a minute, then decided to walk over. She turned out to be a touchy feely type of gal. After some small talk, I tried to leave, but she wouldn’t let go of me.
Over lunch, I learned she was born a pea planter’s daughter, and prided herself in having never had a tan, despite being raised in the hot, low country. It was some kind of rule she grew up with. She was tall, with a great figure, and had the most beautiful blue eyes. And besides being very white, her most obvious feature was her big hair. It was as red as the polka dots on her dress, and I swear it made her a foot taller. I got the impression she thought its size was perfectly normal, though she did confess to having to be careful with cigarettes.
Desdemona had been visiting relatives in Tupelo, and she invited me to go home with her to the family plantation outside Hattiesburg. Since I had no real place to be, I readily agreed. On the way, she told me about her Mama, who had become senile at times, and would think she was speaking to her brother Charles, who went missing in WWII. We talked a lot, and the time passed, though I wished later that I could have followed instead of riding with her. That gal had an old green Cadillac convertible with fins on the back that must have cost a fortune to restore, and she had quite a lead foot. But we made it there alive, and when I saw their antebellum home, built on a slope with the most beautiful old oak trees, it was a sight to behold.
Servants dressed in white took our luggage, and brought us iced tea to drink as we sat down in the parlor. It was all like something out of the past. Desdemona told me that her mother probably wouldn’t distinguish me from any other boyfriend she had ever brought there, and I barely had time to ponder that before she walked in.
“Charles. Why, it’s been so long.”
“Mama, this is Levi Popple. He’s a banker.”
I didn’t know why Desdemona felt the need to lie. I had never been ashamed of my capitalist ventures. Just the week before, I had washed dishes at Flo’s Pancake House in Meridian.
Her mother’s name was Seamoan, and her hair was big too, though it was a wig. Actually, I thought she was rather attractive. She went on and on about how their family was esteemed in the community, and how there had never been any “mixing” with blacks. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Desdemona licking her lips in obvious slow motion, but did my best to ignore her.
“Go on, ma’am,“ I said.
“You know,“ she said, “those mulattoes are everywhere. I watched one in the grocery store and she touched every single damned piece of fruit before picking one."
Personally, I had never heard the word spoken before, and didn't quite know what to think of her.
"All that after who knows what kind of gross relations the night before. Probably not even smart enough to wash her hands. And then she drove off in a damned Mercedes Benz! Now how do you explain that?” Desdemona volunteered that the woman had probably stolen it, and Seamoan said that was the only possible explanation.
Then Seamoan spoke of an ancestor from northern Virginia in the Revolutionary War, and of how she was going to become a member of the D.A.R. She took a folder of old papers out of a desk and put it on the coffee table. She also mentioned that he was buried under the woodshed, which “wasn’t always where it is now.” The legend was that he had apprehended a dozen Indians during a battle all by himself, and made them give up their guns and chickens.
“Shot the hell out of them. The Indians sided with the British, you know.” She then showed me a lot of old things, and said she couldn’t read the handwriting, but it was all there if I could read it.
While Seamoan and Desdemona went out on the porch to smoke, I looked at the papers. Grandpa had petitioned the government for a pension, as was apparently done in those days, and had to give a deposition of his service and tenure. It appeared that he had enlisted in the first place just because he couldn’t cook. He then spent half his time in uniform making liquor for the regiment, and the other half drinking it.
The famous event with the Indians occurred when he woke up one morning still drunk, and laying under a dead horse. His entire regiment had left during the night. The Indians tarred and feathered him, and set him on fire. Then they tied him to the horse in such a way that his face was right under its tail. After that, everybody called him Old Burnt Fart.
I read on to the courthouse writer’s comments, and witness signatures at the end of the deposition. The writer had gotten the impression that there was only one Indian. And that Gramps had moved to the south in an effort to escape the stigma of it all. I don’t know if anything in his story resulted in a pension for him. But being the soft-hearted gentleman that I am, I let on none of this to the Bouffantalierre women when they came back in.
“Did you enjoy reading about the war?” they asked.
“Yes,“ I replied. “Your ancestor was a man on fire, if you ask me.”
“I oughta set that Lucius on fire!” was the next thing from Desdemona’s mouth.
As explained to me, she had taken some of her inheritance and for some reason had bought every dingy, old coin laundry in Mississippi. Then she hired a man of dubious background named Lucius, to run it all for her. Word had it that he was ripping her off, and buying up all the one-room gas station/casinos. One of them was supposedly right next door to one of her laundries, but she couldn’t prove it because she couldn’t remember how to get there.
“Damn his face!” If my daddy was alive he’d beat that man twice, and stick a cane pole up his…“ Seamon scolded her before she could say more.
“I apologize sir, for my child‘s awful temper.”
“Apology accepted, ma'am."
“Thank you. Now what did you say your name was?” I told her again, then listened to more words of wisdom from Desdemona.
Besides the laundries, she had also purchased a series of feed mills, and canneries. What made her pick those particular things, I never knew. To her, they were just dollar signs on paper. When I asked if she had ever inspected one of those feed mills, she looked aghast.
“Why, certainly not, sugar. Those things would smell, wouldn’t they?” She appeared to think for a second.
“I mean, I could. But I’d have to walk around with a perfume bottle under my nose, and I guess that wouldn’t look right.”
We spent most of that afternoon, and others like it on the porch drinking mint juleps and playing bridge. I didn’t know that people actually drank them, until I had one myself. I also didn’t know that some people go to Graceland twelve times or more.
I talked a lot to Annise, a kind black gal who worked there. Desdemona disapproved, but without good reason, so I did it anyway. Annise spoke in a most deliberate slow manner that was fascinating to listen to. One day, she told me about some new girl that didn’t know how to work hard.
“That girl… doesn’t know what she’s doing… I’m going to work her like a human… Hebrew slave.” Annise was something, and I can just hear her today. And she had a sister who worked there named Cherylin, but I couldn’t believe they were related. One day, I went to the kitchen to get a snack, and I overheard her out at the back, fussing at a food delivery boy.
“I don’t know whut choo up to, but don’t choo come back here no mo! You hear me? You gone worry Ms. Boufantleer! You better run! I’ll kick your ass, you sorry good fo nuthin’ white boy! I’ll work over your head like a human Hebrew slave! Don’t choo come back…”
It was certainly entertaining, but being of the same color as the boy, I quietly grabbed some cookies and tiptoed out.