Oreo Girls

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Copyright © 2015 by Catherine Jones

1963

Chapter 1

AN UGLY GRIN SPREAD slowly across the man’s pockmarked face as he realized how easy it had been to stalk this family over the past several weeks. The father, the daughter, and the old coon maid had no clue what was in store for them. If his plans worked out, and he didn’t know why they wouldn’t, all three would be gone by summer’s end.

Child, if the good Lord could have his way all the time, ‘steada that nasty, ol’ devil, I truly do believe black and white together’d always be this sweet.

Claire held the cookie up to the late afternoon sky, turning it over slowly, looking at it from all angles. Ain’t it the best cookie in the whole, wide world, Miss Dorothy?

Don’t say ain’t, baby bird. It ain’t right. The old woman caressed the girl’s pale, slightly freckled face in her large, dark hands, chuckling softly at her own use of the word again.

"I’ll try not to say it anymore, but it is a funny soundin’ word, and I really do like sayin’ it—ain’t, ain’t, ain’t, she half-whispered the last words. Claire gently placed the Oreo on the faded patchwork quilt, made long ago by a grandmother she’d never known, and took the housekeeper’s hands in hers, softly kissing the calloused palms. I love you."

I love you too, baby. The old woman gazed down at the angelic face. Bless yo’ precious little heart, child, you’s the spittin’ image of yo’ momma.

Does that mean I’m pretty?

Yes, bird, that’s what that means. But ‘member, pretty is as pretty does. She reminded the child that insides counted more than outsides.

I miss momma.

I miss her too, child. I cain’t believe it’s been almost a year since her passin’. A chill shot through the old woman as she remembered the night the girl’s mother had died. Everybody said it was an accident but something about it never added up. Tripping and breaking your big toe was an accident. Being buried six feet under when all you were trying to do was to walk across the street in front of your own house was not.

Claire plopped down on her stomach and began staring at a ladybug making its way up a blade of bright, green grass; her eyes crossed slightly as she gazed. When the grass gave way to the weight of the insect, the blade began to bend, initiating the young girl to stick her small finger out in a rescue effort. The polka-dotted bug briefly crawled onto her finger before spreading its tiny wings and taking flight.

Dorothy observed the scene in amazement. Only a child could find such wonder and fascination in one of God’s creatures. Adults would’ve paid no mind to the ladybug. Mr. Jones’s daughter not only took the time to detect and enjoy it, but also reached out in order to help. The maid often wondered if that was why God had lovingly placed this child on his beloved earth—to reach out to others, human or otherwise. A soul was a soul no matter where it was encased.

Claire chugged down her remaining milk and finished with a resounding burp.

I need more milk, she commanded in a chant.

Now, child, you know you ain’t gonna git one mo’ drop ‘less you ask politely. Orderin’ Miss Dorothy to do somethin’s gonna git you nothin’ but a extra chore befo’ supper. The girl’s manners were sorely lacking at times.

Claire thrust her empty jar into the air. Can I have some more, Miss Dorothy? Pretty please? The questions came with an exaggerated Southern drawl.

I don’t know, child. Can you? And I think you’s s‘posed to be sayin’ the word ‘may’. Now hold that jar still. As she took the foil off the glass pitcher and began pouring the cool liquid, she could tell from the child’s expression that a serious topic was coming. She knew Mr. Jones’s daughter like the back of her tired, worn-out hand. What’s botherin’ you, baby bird?

"I was just thinkin’ ‘bout when me and you and daddy went to see To Kill a Mockingbird a coupla weeks ago. I was all excited ‘cause I thought I was gonna git to sit between you and daddy, but you had to sit up in the balcony. Just like those black folks in the movie had to sit upstairs at the courthouse. I thought they were s’posed to be changin’ that. I heard it on the news the other night."

Child, not too long ago, my people couldn’t go in and watch a picture show. We couldn’t even set foot in no movie house unless we was cleanin’ it. The maid took a cookie from the paper bag and shoved it into her mouth. They’s workin’ on laws right now up in Washington, D.C. that could help. So I’s hopin’ and prayin’ that in my lifetime, I’ll git to take you to a movie and sit right beside you down on the bottom floor. We can eat us some greasy buttered popcorn and git us a big ol’ box of Junior Mints.

Can it be a monster movie? Claire loved the thought of sitting next to the housekeeper during a horror show. Nobody in the world could holler as loud as her.

I won’t go with you to no spooky pictures, bird. Life is scary enough for ol’ Miss Dorothy without goin’ to shows where folks is gittin’ they heads bit off by slimy creatures or gittin’ they necks sucked on by vampires and such. Her eyes briefly closed. It was coming. She could feel it. I wouldn’t sleep fo’ a month if I went to one of them Boris Karloff pictures. I gits scared jest seein’ his face in them magazines you keeps under yo’ bed.

That’s where they are? Norman must’ve shoved ‘em under there the other day. I usually hide ‘em from him ‘cause I know they give him bad dreams. She loudly gulped some milk. "He’s such a big chicken, he even gits nightmares after watchin’ The Beverly Hillbillies on the television. Says he’s afraid of Granny."

Dorothy smiled slightly. Normally, she would’ve laughed out loud at what the child had just shared, but today she was feeling uneasy. Almost frightened.

How did you know they were under the bed? Claire was amazed that the housekeeper could see things in her head. Folks said the woman had something called ESP. Extra sense protection or something like that.

Ain’t no big secret. I know they’s under there, ‘cause I’s the maid. Dorothy shook her head and clicked her tongue. It’s parta my job to clean out all that nastiness from under yo’ bed—year-old Milk Duds, tangled-up slinkies, half-eaten samwiches. Why jest a few days ago after you and yo’ daddy had run over to the lake, I was up under there and pulled out a wad of silly putty as big as a baseball!

Claire’s eyes widened at the thought. Not only was the woman old, she was large. Very large. You crawled under my bed? Claire pulled up a handful of grass, tossing it into the air. Some of the blades landed in her long, blonde hair.

Bird, I didn’t mean my whole body got up under there. Dorothy laughed out loud. If that had happened, I’d still be there right this minute ‘cause Lord only knows I couldn’ta got my big ol’ behind back out. Somebody woulda had to call the fire department to help me.

Claire joined in the laughter.

Now let me git on back to my story. That silly putty was all covered in dirt and cat hair and had that freckled-faced Mad magazine boy’s face on it, smilin’ at me with that ol’ gappy-toothed grin. Without me realizin’ he was even in the room—you know how that fat cat likes to sneak up on toppa folks—Butterball ran under the bed and batted it at me with his big, ol’ furry paw. Scared the livin’ daylights outta me when it came rollin’ right up in Miss Dorothy’s face. Thought it was sumpin’ alive. She cackled loudly.

Claire plucked the remaining blades of grass from her hair. I miss daddy. He’s never home anymore.

Yo’ father’s workin’ on three cases right now. He’s tryin’ hard to make some money for his baby girl.

I’m not a baby, Miss Dorothy. I’m seven.

"When you’s as old as I is, Claire Elizabeth, seven is a baby."

Well, I hope he gits paid real soon. My bicycle tire went flat last week—got a nail in it—and daddy said I have to wait till he gets money for a new tire. A movement from the corner of her eye briefly distracted her.

Claire jumped up and began chasing a fluttering monarch butterfly across the grassy back yard, scooping with her small hands as she ran. Before she could make contact, the insect eluded her and drifted over the fence out of sight. The seven year old skipped back to the blanket and fell on it with a thud. What can we talk about now?

The housekeeper’s attention turned next door, and she gave a cheerful wave to the neighbor, who was pulling up in the driveway behind his house.

Hot enough for you, Miss Dorothy? he yelled, getting out of his old, red pickup.

Good Lord, yes, Mr. Miller. And if it gits any hotter, I plan on cookin’ this evenin’s supper smack dab on the sidewalk out front. Might jest fix us all up a messa eggs.

Great idea. If I see you out there later, I’ll send the wife to keep you company. Maybe she can bring out some bacon to fry. He chortled as he walked up his back steps and disappeared into the house.

Claire had always thought the man laughed like a donkey. He-haw, he-haw, he-haw, she tried repeating it. Ouch! What was that for? She rubbed her leg where Dorothy had just pinched her.

We don’t make funna folks, Claire Elizabeth. It ain’t nice.

I wasn’t tryin’ to make fun of him. It’s a neat laugh. She found a loose thread from the quilt and slowly pulled on it, slightly unraveling the corner. I just wanted to see if I could do it.

Would you like to call yo’ daddy on the phone and laugh like that? I’m pretty sure Mr. Jones would know jest who you was mockin’. Her voice was stern.

No, ma’am, I’m sorry. Claire lowered her eyes to the ground and ever so slowly stuck out her bottom lip.

Hold that head back up and suck that lip back in, child. She reached out and softly touched the girl’s chin. That pitiful face might work on yo’ father, but it stopped workin’ on me when you was ‘bout three years old.

Claire looked up into the maid’s thoughtful face. Nothing she ever did got past the woman. Miss Dorothy might be really old, but she was sharp as a tack.

Like most daddies, he chooses to see the angel in yo’ eyes, but I happen to be good at spottin’ the little devil that pops up now and agin.

Does the devil sneak up from way down in ...?

Hades, baby bird, and don’t you be callin’ it nothin’ else. Dorothy knew how the girl liked to sneak shocking words into conversations. She hadn’t yet discovered where the child had picked up such foul language but had narrowed it down to two places—Mabel’s beauty shop or Butch Davis’s potty mouth.

Does he come outta the ground and git in folks’ bodies? Claire’s eyes traced a route from below her neck to her toes, wondering if at this very minute the devil was inside. She jumped up, startling the maid, and shook like she was being electrocuted in the state prison. If you’re in there, you better get out now, devil!

Child, sit that crazy behind back down. You ain’t got no evil spirit in you right now. That’s called possession and that’s a whole ‘nother story.

Possession, the girl whispered, holding the n sound for several seconds as she returned to the quilt. I want to hear it.

Claire found another loose thread on the bedspread and pulled slowly. She liked unraveling things. She unraveled her underwear all the time. Her daddy told her it was a nervous habit. She just thought it was fun.

Git those little fingers offa that thread. Dorothy reached out and softly patted the girl’s hand.  Yo’ great grandmamma made that quilt over a hunnerd years ago, and here you is ‘bout to take it all apart in one afternoon.

I’ll stop pullin’ if you’ll tell me about possession.

I’s fixin’ to be possessin’ me a long switch in ‘bout a minute, missy.

Her tone of voice was convincing. Claire dropped the thread.

And you won’t hear nothin’ ‘bout that devil stuff comin’ from Miss Dorothy’s lips. The maid’s thick fingers lightly touched the cross she always wore around her large neck. Again, she felt the vision coming.

"So are you sayin’ that the devil ain’t, I mean isn’t in me whenever I do bad stuff? Claire frantically searched the woman’s eyes. I don’t want anybody hangin’ out in me but Jesus Christ."

Simmer down. Ain’t no devil livin’ in you, child. You got a angel watchin’ over you that keeps Satan at bay. She kissed the gold cross and tucked it back beneath her cotton dress. When you do somethin’ you ought not to do, then it’s jest the devil puttin’ ideas in yo’ head, not him jumpin’ in and takin’ over.

Then it was the devil that made me trip Norman the other day when we were all playin’ chase.  She was amazed at his control. I ought not to be punished for stuff like that if it’s not my fault.

Claire Elizabeth ...

Jones. The girl blurted out her last name before Dorothy had the chance.

The housekeeper narrowed her eyes at the child before continuing. You always has a amazin’ way of twistin’ things ‘round. Of course, you is to blame. I jest told you that Satan puts the thoughts in that brain. She tapped a little too forcefully on the side of the girl’s head.

Ouch, Miss Dorothy. Claire rubbed the spot softly; the maid paid no mind to her.

It’s the owner of that noggin who chooses to do or not do what is suggested.

Oh. That’s all she could think of to say. I’m gittin’ the creeps. Claire shivered at the thought of the little red man with the horns and pitchfork. Norman told all of us that the devil lives in a room under his house.

He’s thinkin’ Satan lives down in his basement?

"Nope, under the basement. He said that the devil dug hisself a place under his house so he can be close to his daddy and when Mr. Baker drinks, the devil comes up outta his little room and gits inside his daddy and makes him do crazy things. Butch told Norman he was retarded."

Child, y’all need to leave him be. That boy does the best he can with the brain the good Lord gave him.

Norman told me his daddy said he’s gonna be buyin’ a new car soon. I think everbody in town but us is gittin’ a new one. The envy came across in her voice.

Mr. Hill, the richest man in town, drove his family up to church last Sunday in a brand-new Cadillac. His son, Richard, who was her age, had stuck his tongue out at her when he’d stepped out of the back seat of the shiny black automobile. And later when he’d stuck that same old nasty tongue out at her again during Sunday school class, she’d thrown a large yellow wad of Play-Doh at him that had struck him square in the eye. Even she was surprised at how quickly it had swollen up. As punishment, the teacher had made her spend the remainder of the class in the corner, but it had been worth it. After church, Richard could only look at the new Cadillac with one eye. It was a temporary victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Bird, you’s soundin’ jealous. Don’t you ‘member what God’s commandment says ‘bout that?

Yes, ma’am, it’s the seventeenth commandment. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house nor his ass.

Claire Elizabeth Jones, if yo’ momma was down here right now, she’d be gittin’ the switch!  And that woman knew how to use it. I got a good mind to go git one myself! Dorothy looked around to make sure none of the neighbors were outside to hear their exchange. You know good and well what I was talkin’ ‘bout. You gots to stop tryin’ to shock me.

Claire let out a little giggle. The maid was always holding the threat of a switch over her head, but had never once even broken one off a bush, much less used it. Miss Dorothy, you know I was talkin’ about a donkey.

Sure you was, missy, and I’s a young skinny, white girl. She bowed her head and said a silent prayer for strength. Raising this child without the momma would test the patience of Job.

I’m sorry. Claire tried to stifle a laugh but failed as she envisioned the housekeeper’s big head on a white body. Let’s keep talkin’. I promise I’ll be more serious. Cross my heart and hope to die. She followed through with the motions, continuing to giggle.

Dorothy hated that particular childhood ritual. She didn’t believe in tempting fate by using a saying such as that. Like I’s gonna believe that, bird. You’s hardly ever serious. She smiled in spite of herself; the young girl’s laughter was infectious.

The Bible tells us to not want our neighbor’s house or his ox or his ... Claire stopped talking and grinned at the old woman.

Uh, uh, uh! Don’t you dare! I’s fixin’ to walk right in that house and git yo’ father on the phone. I means it!

Donkey, she continued, but it doesn’t say not to want his car. The girl’s mind flashed back to the Cadillac.

Child, they wasn’t no cars back in the days of the Bible or God woulda made mention of not covetin’ them, too. Her voice was unusually loud, but it was important to her that the girl understood. "And ‘cause he didn’t know what would be comin’ up as time went on, he said, ‘nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.’ That should take care of fancy automobiles, color televisions, toaster ovens ..."

Toaster ovens?

Girl, I ain’t finished...and anything else yo’ kooky little noggin can think of. The child’s brain sure had a strange thought process. She grabbed a cookie from the bag and ate it.

"I am jealous, Miss Dorothy, and I’m not gonna deny it. Claire laid down flat on her back.  Whenever I go with daddy to the courthouse and he pulls up in the parkin’ lot, I sometimes hide on the floorboard."

The blonde girl shaded her eyes with the back of her tiny hand. The August sun, peeking through the leaves, danced across her troubled face. Daddy’ll drive our old clunker up between rows and rows of just-bought cars and trucks. It’s embarrassin’. All those folks who work at the courthouse got better vehicles than him. Probly the criminals do, too.

"I do declare, baby bird, ain’t one of them other people got a better soul than yo’ father, and you cain’t buy that at no car lot! Even though she was really worked up and her voice was raised, Dorothy took Claire’s arm gently into her large hand and pulled her up. Look me right in my eyes, child. This is important. There’s somethin’ you gotta know."

The girl did as she was told. Miss Dorothy didn’t normally talk to her in that tone, and it was disturbing.

Yo’ daddy is helpin’ with a young man’s case that’s upsettin’ lotsa folks around town.

You’re talkin’ ‘bout Marcus Montgomery, aren’t you?

I is.

Is daddy doin’ it so he can git us some money?

He ain’t gittin’ paid to do it. Ain’t everthing in this world ‘bout no money, bird.

Then why would he be helpin’ him?

‘Cause it’s what yo’ momma woulda wanted. Mrs. Jones helped that boy up until her dyin’ day, tryin’ to git evidence to prove his innocence.

She wasn’t a lawyer. Why was she helpin’ him?

You don’t gots to be no lawyer to help people. You jest got to be a good human bein’. It don’t take no college degree to do the right thing.

Momma used to tell me to always follow my heart. Sounds like that’s what she did.

And that’s how yo’ momma always lived her life, but not everbody agreed with how she did things. She made herself a lot of enemies tryin’ to help po’ Marcus. Even as we sit here in this yard on this beautiful sunny afternoon, people is out talkin’, choosin’ sides. And, bird, the sides ain’t divided into young and old, folks with money and folks who don’t got none. They’s divided by nothin’ but color—black and white. I’s heartsick ‘bout all this. Tempers is hot. They’s flamin’ hot on both sides.

Suddenly spooked, Claire’s mind began playing tricks on her. She thought she saw a thin trail of wispy smoke coming from behind the Miller’s storage building, disappearing as quickly as it came. I see somethin’ burnin’ right now! The girl sprang up, grabbing the woman’s hand in hers. Let’s git outta here!

Good Lord, child, calm down. You actin’ like you ‘bout two jumps ahead of a fit. Dorothy unwrapped her hand from Claire and pulled her back to the quilt. A brief vision of fire flashed before her eyes. The sign was trying to come again.

There were going to be deaths because of Mr. Jones helping the boy. Murders. But at this point in time, she couldn’t tell just who would be leaving God’s green earth. She could sense that two, possibly three souls would be taken. Whether they were going up or traveling down couldn’t yet be determined.

Some kids say Marcus killed a baby, but nobody I talk to knows how. Why would daddy git a murderer outta jail? Claire didn’t notice the intense look on Dorothy’s face.

Baby bird, yo’ father is doin’ what he has to do to help set a innocent young man free. That boy wouldn’t hurt no fly.

I wish he was a lawyer like Richard’s daddy so he could help the boy better. And so we could git us a new car. Did you know Mr. Hill’s the richest man in town? Probly the meanest, too.

The girl swatted and squished a mosquito on her leg. Grabbing a napkin, she moistened it with her spit then wiped the bloody remains from her hand and thigh. The Bible talks about rich people. It says it’s easier for a camel to git to heaven than a rich man. There’s gonna be a million camels up there before Mr. Hill gits there. If he even makes it. She slyly took another cookie. I haven’t ever thought about camels bein’ in heaven before, but if it’s in the Bible, it’s gotta be true.

Child, that’s not exactly the sayin’. If you’s gonna be quotin’ it to folks, you needs to git it right.

Well, I know there’s a camel in it somewhere.

Yes, bird. They is. The Bible says it’s easier fo’ a camel to go through the eye of a needle than fo’ a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.

What in the heck does that mean?

Child, don’t be sayin’ no ‘h’ word when you’s talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ from the holy book.  Dorothy closed her eyes, mumbling a quick prayer. You ought not to be sayin’ that word no ways.

I’m sorry, Miss Dorothy, but who woulda even thought of puttin’ a camel through a hole in a needle?

Baby bird, jest hush. The maid could take no more. She didn’t mind letting the girl go on and on about most things, but when it came to God and the Bible, she had to draw the line.

Claire stared at the woman without speaking, hating that she got shushed for asking questions. 

You needs to stop bein’ embarrassed by yo’ daddy or yo’ daddy’s vehicle. You needs to hold yo’ head up high and be thankful you even got a car to ride in. Lotsa folks don’t.

I guess you’re right. Our car’s not that old. It just smokes a little when we’re drivin’ around.  Norman’s daddy’s car smokes so much it looks like it’s on fire.

The two of them laughed; the tension was beginning to ease.

Claire, baby, yo’ father’s not a parta this world to make money so he can be rich like that big shot Mr. Hill. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the old oak tree. That man ain’t worthy of shinin’ yo’ daddy’s shoes.

Claire briefly turned from the housekeeper and stuffed two cookies into her tiny mouth. She chewed quickly, like a squirrel consuming nuts before winter, and just as hurriedly washed them down with a big swig from her jar of milk.

Now what was we talkin’ ‘bout? Dorothy searched the corners of her mind, trying to come up with the topic. She was desperately trying to keep the vision away.

I forgot.

Me, too.

The maid popped a whole cookie into her mouth and chewed slowly, her mind drifting again. It seemed the older she got and the closer she came to being with God, the more time she spent looking back over her life. A life filled with glorious highs and unspeakable lows. Her seventy-seven years on earth seemed to have taken only seventy-seven minutes to live.

It felt like just yesterday she was a little girl running barefoot through fields of cotton, a child full of hopes and dreams. An innocent girl who didn’t realize back then that the color of her skin was going to stand between her and those wonderful expectations. Because God had chosen to darken her skin, her hopes had never come to pass.

There was a period of time as a young woman when she’d become resentful of her maker, mad at him for the injustices she’d had to endure. After being raped, she remembered wishing she could take a steel brush and scrub the color right off her body. Watch the dark, burnished pigment swirl down the tub drain allowing her to live the rest of her life as a white woman. A woman who wasn’t limited to just being a maid or a cook. A woman who didn’t have to worry about being attacked by a white man just because he could get away with it. A woman who could just be free.

As a child, she’d been fascinated with the assortment of people colors. Even within her own community, there were mixed shades of brown. She had often wondered how God had made the decision as to which of his precious souls would be born into ivory skin or ebony skin. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe, catch a ...

The sudden movement of a nearby cardinal brought her back to the present. Dorothy took a swig from the Mason jar full of milk and let out an audible sigh. The wet, sticky air was taking its toll on her. Even with the welcoming shade of the hundred-year-old oak, being a large woman on a hot, sunny day in the South wasn’t easy.       

The bald man stood in the corner of the Miller’s back yard, just behind the storage building, secretly observing the two females. He glanced at his watch, noting that he’d been there about a half hour. Minutes earlier, a puff of smoke from his cigarette had briefly caught the attention of the young girl—a definite sign to be more careful. Soon he would meet the old woman and the young girl face to face, but now was not the time. There was much more to do.

Chapter 2

BOO RADLEY IS A FICTIONAL character, you idiot.

Why you always usin’ big words on everbody? Butch, the eight-year-old neighborhood juvenile delinquent and Claire’s sometime friend, crawled through the branches of the magnolia tree, trying to get a better view.

It’s just the way I talk. Claire pulled the clunky binoculars from around her neck and began adjusting them. Daddy tells people I have a copious vocabulary.

Copious, smopious. Settling on a big limb, he reached over to her. Gimme those darn things. It’s my turn to look for Boo.

You can’t have ‘em yet, and stop sayin’ Boo. She jerked away from him, almost losing her balance in the tree. "You keep talkin’ ‘bout him like he’s livin’ next door to you. Fiction means not real. Boo Radley was a made-up person in a book. Then he was in a movie. You’re not gonna see him wanderin’ the streets of Milburn or sittin’ in the back pew of the