The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond (10 page)

T
he street where Bibi lived was lined on both sides with palm trees so tall, it looked like they were trying to touch the blue sky. “Wow! It's pretty here.”

Bibi smiled.

With one exception, all of the palm tree trunks leaned in the same direction. “Wonder why that one didn't grow the same as the others?” I asked.

“Same as some people . . . probably born different. Like me, I suppose. Everyone warned me not to pursue my art, said it was a waste of time. Colored girl, artist. Most folks laughed, even my daddy. Told me to be a social worker . . . even a nurse. But the art was in my mind and soul and it had to come out. I couldn't help it. No matter what, it kept showing up.” Bibi gazed up at the palm trees, then at me.

I thought for a few seconds about what she had said.

I felt different inside, too. “I think words are in me,” I said. “Just when I think there are no more to learn, another one shows up.”

“Maybe you'll be a writer.”

“A writer? I never thought about that, but being a writer might be cool, very cool.”

Bibi unlocked the gate and we entered the front courtyard of her house. Inside, there was a garden with all sorts of cacti, a bunch of other plants, and one patch along the wall with nothing but blooming yellow sunflowers.

“Sunflowers are my favorite,” I told her.

“Mine too,” she replied. “We'll pick some later, okay?”

“Sure.”

The house was painted a color that was sort of red-orange and it had a red tiled roof and a big stained glass window. It looked like pictures I'd seen in books about Mexico. “Is this a Mexican house?” I asked.

“It's Spanish style. Quite a few of the houses in this section of Leimer
t Park are.”

“Leimert Park? I thought this was Los Angeles?”

“It is Los Angeles . . . a part of South Los Angeles, but some neighborhoods have special names.” Bibi put the key in the lock and led me inside. A bunch of mail from the door mailbox slot blocked the entryway floor, and she hurried to gather it up. “My house is a mess,” she said. “Forgive me. I wasn't expecting company.” Then she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

I stored my suitcase and backpack in a corner and headed to the living room, where I plopped on the sofa and looked around. It wasn't like any room I'd ever seen before and I loved it. The walls, including the ceiling, were painted lavender and the wood around the windows was painted the color of salmon. Every wall was covered with all sorts of paintings and other kinds of artwork. There were wooden statues and stuff made from clay crammed everywhere. One whole shelf had nothing but turquoise figurines, maybe thirty in all. There was enough art for a museum, and that was just in the living room. From what I could see from where I was sitting, the dining room's four walls, which were painted bright yellow, were covered with more paintings and face masks.

She needs a bigger house.

And that's exactly what Bibi said when she came out of the bathroom. “I need a bigger house, don't I, Violet?”

“Just call me V, okay? It's what most people call me. Even my mom, except when she's mad.”

“V it is, then . . . but if I forget now and then, will you forgive me? I'm getting old.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“That's what my gam always says when I ask her.”

Bibi chuckled. “Smart woman.”

She gave me a tour of the house. There was a small den, painted bright green, with a flat-screen TV, two recliner chairs that looked comfy, and a desk with a laptop computer. She showed me her bedroom, which was pretty messy, like my room at home. It was painted bright orange.

I thought about the walls in our house.

Boring.

“You sure like pretty colors,” I commented.

The next bedroom was very neat and was painted bright blue. Periwinkle, Bibi called it. It had a fluffy bed. “This will be your room, Violet,” Bibi said.

My own room here.

But the room across from it was a little dark because the drapes were closed. Inside, I could see there was no bed, just an old-looking dresser and an entire wall of framed papers and photographs. It was the only room in the house that was painted white. “Is it okay if I look at the pictures?”

Bibi nodded and flicked on the light.

From a distance, I thought I saw pictures of me, and as I got closer I realized I was right. My school photos were labeled for every year, beginning with kindergarten.

Her having my pictures there made me start to feel a little less like a guest.

Above mine were school pictures of my dad.

My mom had lots of photos of him from when they were married, but none from before. He was so cute. “Was this his room?” I asked.

Bibi picked at her nails and replied, “Yes, it was. Till the day he left for college. Once New York City bit him, he rarely came home except for Christmas. Summertime would come and he'd promise, but then he'd get a summer job or internship there.”

I inspected the photos again. “We really look alike, huh?”

“Yes, you do.”

Also on the wall were a bunch of his framed diplomas and awards. One said
class valedictorian.
“What's a valedictorian?”

“The highest-ranked student in the graduating class. He gave an amazing speech. We were the proudest parents who ever lived. I can still hear his voice. ‘My name is Warren Thurgood Diamond and I was sent here to inspire you.'”

“His middle name was Thurgood . . . like Thurgood Marshall?”

That made Bibi smile. “Yep,” she replied. “His father wanted him to be a lawyer, but from the time he was little, Warren had his mind set on being a surgeon.”

I examined every corner of the room with my eyes. I wanted to be able to see him, hear his voice, talk to him. I felt like he'd been stolen from me. “Do you think maybe his ghost is in here?”

Bibi gave me a you're-a-strange-person look and replied, “No. I think his spirit is with God.”

“In heaven?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I suppose because her eyes were getting watery again, she changed the subject. “Want to see my studio? It's outside.”

I glanced at the photos one more time. Knowing they were here, where I could see them anytime, made me happy. I shut off the light and trailed Bibi outside to the backyard. About ten wind chimes and a hundred Christmas ornaments dangled from the patio. Some were stars and others were globes in every color. “Wow. Are these always here?”

“Always.”

I felt as if I was in an odd, unique, and beautiful world. Like maybe we'd left the Earth.

“It's just a converted garage,” she said as she turned the knob and welcomed me inside her studio.

Inside there were easels and canvasses, big and small. All around there were paints and cans, a zillion brushes, and the floor was so spattered with paint of every color that it looked like a painting itself. She even had one of those wheel things for making pottery. “I'm afraid it's not very organized,” she apologized.

“That's okay, my gam's office isn't organized, either,” I told her, then asked, “Do you sell a lot of paintings?”

“Enough to put some travel money in my pocket. I have a serious case of wanderlust.”

A great new word. “Does that mean you like to wander around?”

“To travel,” she explained.

I grinned. “I have that, too.”

Bibi walked toward me, reached out, swallowed me up with her arms, and hugged me tight, and I hugged her back. Right then, Bibi seemed less like a stranger. She felt warm and smelled nice, like a vase of flowers.

I rummaged through the studio, looking at this and that, touching the paintings and containers of paint. “I don't think I have art inside me like you do because I'm not that good at drawing and I never really painted except in school art class, but I really want to learn. Can you teach me?”

“Yes, Violet, I will,” she promised, “but right now Bibi needs to go inside and put her feet up. The old girl is getting tired. Later on we'll go to the market. I need some things for tomorrow's dinner.” Like a tail on a donkey, I was right behind her.

“Are you hungry or thirsty?”

I rubbed my still very full tummy. “After that ginormous lunch, no way.”

We went to the den and she turned on the TV with the remote. “You mind the Cooking Channel?” she asked. “Might give us some ideas for tomorrow's dinner.”

“Okay,” I replied, then glanced at the computer. “But is it okay if I send my mom and Daisy an e-mail?” I asked.

“Of course.” Bibi turned on the computer and logged on. “There you go, sweetie.”

Sweetie?

I sent a short e-mail to my mom and Daisy, letting them know everything was okay, and in no time at all they replied with happy faces. “Done,” I said, and turned off the laptop.

Bibi settled down in the recliner, put her feet up, and motioned for me to sit in the other chair. “Been a very long week,” she sighed.

We watched the Cooking Channel for a while before Bibi nodded off and snored. Outside, the wind began to blow and an orchestra of chimes clanged.

I like it here.

But as she napped, I caught myself wondering if Bibi would sneak into my room at night and check on me, the way Gam does when I spend the night at her house. I hadn't even been gone a day, but I already missed my comfy bed, Mom, Daisy, Gam, and Poppy, the same everyday mostly boring stuff that goes on in Moon Lake, my kitty, Hazel, motormouth Athena, Yaz, shouting orders on the ice.

Violet Diamond is a little homesick.

A
bout a half hour later, Bibi woke up and we headed to the market to buy food for tomorrow's dinner.

The grocery store wasn't too far from her house, and inside, almost everyone was African American. There were a few people who I knew were from Mexico or someplace like that because I heard them speaking Spanish, but I didn't see one single white person. It was nothing like Moon Lake, where I'm usually the only black person in the store, or even Seattle, where there are all kinds of people, and being in a place where nearly everyone was African American for the first time felt different. Even though I was still in America, it felt like I'd traveled a million miles from home.

“I'm in the mood for a soul food feast. What do you think, V?”

I shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Ever had grits pie?” Bibi asked.

“I've had grits, but never in a pie. Doesn't sound delicious.”

“Well, it's a family favorite, V. My grandmother from Louisiana used to make it. Thought you and I should give it a try. I know her recipe by heart . . . think the only thing I don't have at home is vanilla extract and buttermilk.”

It was as if Bibi had memorized the store and she knew right where everything was.

“And for the lemon icebox pie . . . I'll need some condensed milk.”

“That sounds good,” I said as I tagged along beside her.

“It is and it's easy,” Bibi told me.

Then, like she was writing a menu inside her head, she rattled off, “And short ribs, salmon croquettes, fried okra, jambalaya, and corn bread.”

By the time we finished shopping, the cart was filled almost to the top, and it was almost dark when we loaded up the car and headed back to her house.

“You getting hungry, V?” she asked.

“You must be reading my mind,” I told her.

“Taco Bell okay with you?”

I told her yes and in a flash she'd changed lanes. Minutes later we pulled into the drive-through and ordered.

I'm not sure why, but being with Bibi felt different from being with Gam. Not better, just different. It was like one was mint chip ice cream and the other was cookies 'n' cream: I like them both and both are sweet.

That night, I showered and washed my hair in Bibi's pretty bathroom that had black and yellow tiles. While my hair was still wet, she rubbed in something called Moroccan argan oil. It made my hair really easy to comb through, even easier than the stuff Yaz had helped me buy. Bibi said I could have the small bottle. She promised it would keep my hair soft and shiny but not greasy. “Thanks, Bibi.”

And later, as I climbed into bed, she asked, “Do you say your prayers with your mother or by yourself?”

“Oh, I just make wishes, but Mom claims they're really prayers,” I explained.

Bibi's face turned serious. “Do you believe in God, V?”

I answered yes and pointed up. “I know He's up there.”

She kissed my forehead and said, “Good night and God bless.”