* * *
As we drove through town, Annie Sue chattered enthusiastically about how she got roped into WomenAid. 'I thought it was just a shelter for battered women. Then around Easter, Lu Bingham came by the office to see if we could give her a rough idea of what an electrician would charge to wire a small house because this is the first one they've ever tried. Cindy and I were there with Mom, and she really got us charged up about making a difference. Doing something tangible and permanent for a homeless woman and her children. It sounded like a lot of fun.'
That was Lu, all right. She could make having a root canal sound like fun if it would benefit one of her needy women.
Sometimes it's quid pro quo—as when she helped one of the new Cambodian refugee families set up a lawn service and then convinced me it'd make a great present for Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash's fortieth anniversary this spring. Actually, it did. I no longer have to dragoon a nephew or niece to cut the grass when Uncle Ash is gone; and Aunt Zell thinks they really do a super job with her yard and gardens, so I get Brownie points every time they come. But I didn't think
'So who's this house for?' I asked.
'Her name's BeeBee Powell. She's a black single mom. I think the little boy's nine, and just the darlingest little six-year-old girl. She works full-time out at the hospital in the billing department and takes part-time courses at Colleton Tech to be a nurse.'
'Sounds like an overachiever.'
'Well, this isn't just charity, you know. Lu won't help anybody unless she's willing to help herself. We may be giving our time and labor and maybe even some stuff like that leftover wire Dad said I could use, but most of the building supplies have to be bought for cash money and—oops!' Tools shifted loudly in the back of the truck and my body strained against the seat belt as she braked abruptly for a stop sign she almost didn't see till the last minute. 'Sorry about that!'
'That's okay,' I grinned. 'But for future reference, you do
'Oh gosh, that's right. I keep forgetting. You still just seem like you. Not serious and—' She searched for the word as the intersection cleared and she could drive on. 'Not big-headed.'
'It's only been a week,' I said dryly. 'Come back in a year.'
'Not you,' she said firmly. 'Dad said—'
She broke off, embarrassed, and I pretended not to notice. I didn't have to push her to get the drift of what Herman probably said. I'd already heard my brothers speculating about how long it'd be before I forgot about where I was and mouthed off at the wrong time.
'Anyhow,' she continued as we crossed under a railroad bridge, 'BeeBee got picked by WomenAid's board of directors. Everybody that wanted to could put their name in, but they had to fill out a long questionnaire— education, job history, finances, number of dependents—everything. I guess half the questions were about how bad they needed a house—like, can anybody really believe she and her two sisters and their five kids are all living in a four-room house 'cause they love each other so much? Let's get real here.'
Her young voice was hot with newborn awareness of social inequities.
'What was the other half?' I asked.
'Whether or not they could carry the mortgage.'
'If it's just for the building materials, that can't be much.'
'It's going to take BeeBee about twelve years to pay it off,' my niece said indignantly. 'Can you believe it? They must be paying her
Reality time.
She turned down a narrow street of shabby houses badly in need of fresh paint and fresh screens on doors and windows, took the right fork at the next intersection and wound up on Redbud Lane, a tree-lined street at the edge of Darkside where the neighborhood was racially and economically blended. Some of the houses on this street could use paint as well, but they seemed in good repair. Too, the yards were neatly tended and most were bright with red and white petunias and those stiff little blue flowers that I can never remember the name of.
The site was easily identified by a temporary dumpster, two blue portable toilets and stacks of fresh lumber. Directly across the street was an undeveloped wooded lot, which neighborhood children seemed to use as a play place.
Thanks to Annie Sue's enthusiasm, we were twenty-five minutes early, but Lu Bingham was already there, along with several other women. While we waited for the rest to assemble, Lu gave me the fifty-cent tour. When finished, the house would be a no-frills frame: hardboard siding on solid slab, three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths. This morning it was merely an eleven-hundred-square-foot rectangle of concrete with plastic pipes sticking up here and there where water and sewage lines had been roughed in.
'Took us four weekends to get it to this point,' Lu said. 'First we had to clear out all the underbrush and rubble. Filled three dumpsters.'
Situated two doors up from a neighborhood quick-stop and half again as deep as it was wide, the lot looked to be a little over a quarter acre. There was a tall pine beside the front sidewalk and two sturdy oaks at the rear. Someone had hung two old tractor tires from ropes, and a knot of youngsters, black and white, were already swooping back and forth.
'Saturday before last, we dug the footing by hand and it was poured on Monday. And we finally got the utility companies to come out and give us electricity and water.'
Last Saturday, the wife of a brick mason had demonstrated how her portable mixer worked, and what proportions of mortar mix, water and sand to use. Then, while the neophytes kept them supplied with a steady stream of wet concrete blocks and fresh mortar, she and two others had laid a low block wall atop the perimeter footing that would enclose the concrete slab. They were finished by noon. After lunch, the women spread sheets of plastic over the entire dirt floor to act as a vapor barrier, lapped them up a few inches on the side, then laid down steep reinforcing mesh on top of the plastic.
