Pickin' Beans on the Back Porch

By Ann Smith

"You take hold the bean. Hold it curled side up. Fold it toward the middle, and pop! It opens. Then, you take your thumb, that's right baby, and push all the little green peas out into the pail. You're doing it right now, darlin'." She musses my hair with a touch as light as a butterfly's kiss. Partin' the blond curls and smoothin' them away from my face, she then lets her fingers trail down my cheek to catch hold of my chin. With my chin captured between her thumb and finger, she wiggles it back and forth 'till I smile wide at her, and then she pops a shelled pea through the window in my grin where three baby teeth have been missin' for two whole years.

I chew the pea to mush. Opening my mouth and stickin' out my tongue impossibly far, I show her the whole gooey mess of green mash stuck on it. It is somethin' a young lady of good breedin' would never do. Scandalized, Maman slaps her hand to her breast, and declares, "The Devil has done possessed you, child!" I hide my whole self from her behind my two hands coverin' my eyes. I am invisible. "O, my baby! Where is my girl child?" she screams. Then she begins searching high 'n low for me under the bucket, around the stoop and even in the basket holdin' the pea pods. Grabbin' a single pea pod outta' the basket, she says,"Gotcha!" The pod she's holdin' pops open and the peas scatter like marbles. Maman raises her hands above her head to get a touch of the Holy Ghost power and in her best fire 'n brimstone shout proclaims,"You give up my lamb, Devil!"

"You are over actin' again, Maman."

"Am not," she sniffs, pokin' her nose high in the air.

"Your nose is growin', Maman."

"Is not," she says, tryin' to look hurt.

Her eyes crinkle a little at the corners and she blows out all her breath into my face just before she stands tall and fills her whole self with air 'till her cheeks puff out. Then she lets loose, singing at the top of her voice, "Peas, peas, pease. Eatin' Goober Peas. Eatin' Goober, Eatin' Goober, Eatin' Goober pease." Prancin' over close to plant a kiss on my brow, she says,"Maman's going to pick some guavas for jam now. Nothin' you like better 'n pineapple guava jam on corn fritters, is there baby? I'll be right over there, so you can see me. Nothin' to be a' feared of . . . 'Peas, peas, pease, eatin' Goober Peas'. . . ."

She glides. Maman doesn't just walk like other folk. The hem of her white organdy dress billows and puffs with the breeze, but the apron holds it politely to her thighs. The lady in white approaches a bough, heavy laden with fruit. Reaching over to pat the tree's trunk like they were old, dear friends, she begs Mrs.Tree a pardon for relievin' her of her little guava childrens today.

Maman adjusts the ladder against the fork of two strong branches near the tree's peeling trunk. She tucks the thick, dark brown strands of hair that have escaped back neatly into the folds of the kerchief tied round her head. She loosens the ribbons cinched under her chin attached to the ever present sun bonnet. Touchin' her brow in mock salute to the task at hand, adoptin' all the little guava children, she pauses just long enough so that I can pray for them. "I solemnly pledge to adore them (spread all over my corn fritters) one and all, so help me God!" This said, she plucks the bonnet from her head and sails it across the yard at me. I duck, but it hits me every time. I giggle, because what she does next always makes me laugh out loud. The big giggles are there a waitin' in my tummy. "Do it, Maman. Do it!"

She looks over her shoulder sportin' the look Daddy calls "The look of a woman with mischief and mayhem on her mind." She winks, conspiratorially, and then fast as a lightin' bug, bends over, grabs fists' full of her skirt, threads it through the needle of splayed legs and tucks it ceremoniously into the front bow of her apron. I squeal with delight. "Oh maman, you are a caution!" She rewards me with a Daddy's smile. The one she saves for him alone, usually. The one that lights up a room.

Kickin' off her shoes, she mounts the ladder. She laces her bare toes over the first rung, but skips the second rung because it has been missin' since the time of Moses. Foot sure, Maman scrambles up to the top of the tree. She's not scared of high up places. Maman plucks the first fruit. Mrs. Tree shivers her branches cuz' it hurts just a wee bit to lose her childrens.

The fruit is over ripe 'cuz it's been kissed too many times by the sun. Maman fills her apron's pockets, and each time she stretches to pluck another, the juice trails down her arm. She licks it off from elbow to wrist.

"Careful, Maman, or you'll shame the wood sprites."

Everybody knows shaming the wood sprites is a scary game. They take their revenge on litl 'ens, stealin' their breath away while they sleep. Their cousins, the swamp angels, carry off the babes 'n hide 'em in the swamp forest where they'll sleep forever.

"Don't fret so, baby. The birds know your Maman by name."

The birdies eat wood sprites, and their cousins the swamp angels are very much a'feared of them. Maman can talk the birds out of their tree, and they give her Mrs. Tree's fruit. They love her. She is beautiful. The birdies sing to her and she gives them back a song. "Oh, where you goin' my good ole' man. Oh, where you goin', and she called him alone. Town, Ma. . . . To the Rio Grande, you're the best ole' man, that ever was alive."

"I'm tired, Maman. Look, I've finished the peas."

"You shor' has, sweetpea."

She descends the ladder and wraps both her arms around the pockets in her apron front, proudly cradling somethin' wonderful, like when she carried Julius safe inside the tight skin of her tummy. It makes my mouth fair water to watch her walk. She is dripping juicy, pineapple guavas and lookin' for all the world like a fairy queen. Maman dances to a stand still before me and the peas. Holding out the sides of the apron at each corner, she bows in a most stately curtsy, fawning and dipping impossibly low. Then gathering her apron in one hand, she picks up her straw bonnet.

"I crown thee Princess Pea," Maman says, as she pushes the bonnet down so that it droops over my forehead.

"I can't see."

"Well, I can. And, I can see you're tired baby."

She gently pushes, shooing me like the chickens, up the steps and through the back door. "It's powerful hot out here, anyway." Pausing at the threshold, holding the screen ajar, she squints at the sun, scolding it for its torrid trespasses. I wonder how it has the gumption at all to shine in her presence.

"Nap time. Time to hit the hay."

The screen door slaps against its bug chewed frame, and then creeps closed with a squeak and a sigh. The kitchen is cool and dark. I hang the bonnet on the peg by the back door.

"Where shall I put the pail for you, Maman?"

"Over by the meat grinder, darlin' girl. Jest let me get this fruit on to boil, and I'll be in to pet your li'l punkin' head."

Time to get nakeeee. . . . Running down the hall to my room, I snatch the dress over my head so I don't have to bother with the buttons or the sash. I hop on one foot, slinging a slipper off, and send the other one to join it across the room. I peel away the sweaty cotton, lacy anklets next. Arms raised high over my head, I dive onto the baby blue chenille coverlet. Wriggling on my tummy like a snake across the bed, I cross to the other side against the wall, so Maman has room to lie down with me.

Turning on my back, quiet as a church mouse, I await my audience with the queen. The ceiling fan circles, tipsy like, because the plaster has crumbled and a screw is loose. It reminds Maman of Uncle Marvin who drinks too much cuz' of the war and I must never sit on his lap. A horse fly buzzes around on the updraft of the whirl and I close my eyes to let the sweat dry on my lids, and just listen to her sing, serenading the guavas. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are grey. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."

I imagine them fairly leaping into the boilin' water just to please her highness.

"Hurry, Maman, hurry. My eyes are wanting to close real bad. The wood sprites could steal your little girl away and hide her in the swamp with Julius. I want to see you . . . one . . . last . . . time."

Barefooted, she glides down the hallway to my room, almost silently, barely slapping the loose floor boards. Her Majesty is summoned daily to meet me, Princess Pea, in our secret hideaway. This is where she performs all kinds of midday magic. Just for me.

She stops just short of my room and peeks 'round the door jam. It's the game we play. "Shhhhh. My baby is asleep. I'll leave her to her dreams." She pretends to walk away, and then stops halfway down the hall like she forgot somethin' specially important. My eyes are squeezed tight shut and I'm trying powerful hard not to giggle.

"Time to get naked!", she screams, spins round and runs down the hall back to my room. I hear her snatch the dress over her head, so she doesn't have to bother with the buttons or the sash. She peals off her slip, and it floats like a prayer to the floor, covering my slippers. She dives onto the bed and we bounce up to the ceiling, hugging the hot air high up near the blistered plaster. We fall to earth and she flips over on her back, too. Just like me.

"Sing Humpty, pleeeease, Maman."

"Don't you want a story first?"

"Tell about Julius and the swamp."

"No, that always makes us weepy. And Monday is wash day. It always rains buckets on Mondays. Tuesday is pea pickin' day, jolly jam day, and singing Humpty to my pumpkin."

With my head propped on two pillows, I can see the rise and fall of her pink tipped breasts with each breath she takes and then each note she allows to escape in whispers from her pink tinged lips. "Ole' Humpty was dead and buried, buried, buried. Ole' Humpty was dead and buried, Um-de-twaddle-dee-day . . . Thay comes an ole' woman to digger him up, digger him up, digger him up. Thay comes an ole' woman to digger him up. Um-de-twaddle-dee-day." Before the wood sprites stole our Julius from us, he would suckle the afternoon away at those rosy tips. Maman let me have a taste once. It was hot and sweet, and I didn't see why Julius liked it so much.

Her tummy is flat like mine now. Our legs are long, and our toes are exactly, exactly, the same, though mine are smaller. Our shoulders touch and she smells like steamy gardenias, the French in her not caring that the hair grows under there. It would fault her femininity to shave it off.

"Let's sing Froggy's story, Maman. Pleeeeze." I needn't beg cuz the queen always grants my wishes when the sun is high and we are bein' fanciful.

I begin Froggy's serenade, tryin' to sing low and sultry, and failing miserably," Froggy went a courtin' he did ride, sword and pistol by his side,"

She answers in a bruising contralto that nearly knocks the air out of me," When upon his high horse set. His boots they shone as black as jet."

"He rode right up to mouse's hall. Where he most tenderly did call."

"Oh, Mistress Mouse are you within? . . ."

"Dad, get another morphine tab and tuck it in the side of her cheek so we can turn her without hurtin' her too much. There, there, my darlin' girl, I'm here." I pet her head for the few seconds it takes the morphine tablet to dull the pain. "I just need to bathe your back so the sores don't come, precious one. I'll give you a proper back rub, after we wash you." It's been two weeks since she has talked, but she thanks me with her eyes. "Oh, doesn't that feel good. This will cool your fevered skin, too, darlin'." For four months she has been tryin' hard to die. Dying is very hard work. "O.K., Dad, I'm finished. Grab the sheet and we can turn her back."

Her hands are so cold. Dad warms her left one between his calloused hands. Willin' her not to leave him yet, he presses so tight that the diamond ring, gone thin after fifty years of constant wear, cuts a brand into the skin of his palm. Her skin is still bonnie and beautiful, so white, it's almost translucent. Her legs are long, and our feet are the exact same size. Her breasts are exactly, exactly, like mine. We ignored the changes in ourselves as I grew up and we grew apart. Small, imperceptible changes, ignored, grew to devour a life without leaving a trace.

I miss you, Maman. You were my sunshine.