Free Black Betty by Walter Mosley Page B

that looked from the distance to be made of marble.
    “May I help you?” an electronic female voice asked.
    To the side of me at the gate there was a speaker box. My driving up must have set off some kind of alarm.
    “May I help you?” the voice asked again.
    “Um, I’m here to see Sarah Clarice Cain.”
    “What is your business?”
    “I have to talk to her,” I said. And when the robot woman didn’t answer I added, “About Marlon Eady.”
    “What do you…” the voice started to ask. Then, “Come in.”
    The gate rolled to the side and I drove up the long lane to the house. To the right was a tall evergreen hedge that was there to muffle the sound of traffic. To the left was the lawn leading down to a line of Greek statues that couldn’t be seen from outside.
    The lane led to a circular drive wide enough that visitors could park there while other cars could drive past and let passengers off at the front door.
    The building, you couldn’t call it a house really, was three tall stories high. The marble pillars flanked a front door that was at the center of a wall of glass. You could see the long staircase that led upward to floors above. The entrance hall was pink stone.
    I wasn’t surprised that a Negro woman opened the front door. Her skin was definitely brown but on the lighter side. Freckles were scattered around her upturned nose. It’s always strange to see a black person’s nose turned up. Instead of me being put off by her arrogant stare I just wanted to get to know her better.
    “Hi,” I said, smiling and hoping that she’d like me.
    “Hello,” the pretty young woman said, devoid of any emotion. The black dress defined her as a maid, but she wore large gaudy earrings and the material of the dress was a fine cotton, maybe even silk. She might have been an employee but she was secure in that position.
    “Can I talk to the lady?”
    “It would be inconvenient at the moment for Miss Cain to receive anyone.” She sounded just like a white woman. There wasn’t a hint of down home in her voice. “So if you’d like to leave a message I’ll make sure that she gets it.”
    I let my head loll forward while I leered. “No,” was all I said.
    “Why not?” She was indignant.
    “You go tell the lady that if she wants to talk to me about Marlon Eady and a certain check that she wrote to him then she could un-inconvenience herself and come on down here to see me. I don’t have to sit on her good chairs or nuthin’. I’ll be standin’ right here, waiting for her t’come on down.”
    “Have you spoken to… to… Mr. Eady?” she asked instead of running my errand.
    “That depends,” I answered.
    “Depends on what?”
    “Do you know him?”
    “His sister worked for us. She left recently.”
    “Us?”
    “I mean here, at the house,” she answered, slightly flustered.
    “We talkin’ ’bout Betty, right?”
    A light went on in the maid’s eyes. “Do you know Elizabeth?”
    “Can I talk to the lady?” I smiled.
    The maid’s nostrils flared and her eyes widened. She was definitely a pretty woman. “Can’t you answer a question?”
    “Can you?”
    She was put off balance by my manner. It was as if nobody had ever refused her anything. I was some strange beast to her; and she was either going to cut my throat—or ride me.
    “Wait here,” she commanded. Then she slammed the door in my face.
    I waited about five minutes or so thinking about all the people who’ve slammed doors on me. I had counted up to twenty-three, with a couple of good chuckles, when the door opened again.
    This time there was a real white woman. She was in her early forties, light-haired—blond going gray—and slight. Her expression gave you the impression that she was thinking about something very far away and very beautiful—if sad. All in all she seemed like one of those other-worldly heroines in the romantic novels of the Brontë sisters.
    “Yes?” she asked as if to someone behind me.
    “Mrs. Cain?”