Deep in the corner of the envelope was what was left of one of those blossoms. Flattened, brown, and crisp.
There was no return address, but the postmark said Alcolu, South Carolina. June 8, 1936.
I set the letter aside and carefully placed the record in the phonograph, and the needle on the record. There was a moment of quiet before the piano started, then other players joined in, and then Mama’s pretty voice brought the song to life. Clean and clear. I danced around the living room, singing along. I knew every word, and every change of tone. Mama would hit some words hard, for emphasis, then say others low and soft. I moved my body to the feel of the words, the music. I let myself be swept away.
When the song ended, I walked to the phonograph, about to lift the needle, but just before I did, I heard people talking. The singing and playing had ended, but folks were still carrying on. There wasn’t anything like that at the end of my record.
“You need another one, J.P.?” a man asked.
J.P.!
A calm and friendly voice answered, “No, sir. That’s the one.” Then, softly, he said, “Thank you, Lucy.”
ella
I just knew J.P. had to be my daddy!
It sounded like he was the man making the recording, but from the way he spoke to her, from the notes he wrote—I believe in you, and elderberry girl—and from the flower he sent her in the mail, it sounded like Mama was special to him. Surely he was special to her, too.
Plus, Mama said that she made her recording with me in her tummy. And here she was at the recording with this man who wrote these nice things to her.
J.P.
I found the letter on the floor and read the postmark again:
Alcolu, South Carolina. June 8, 1936.
But I was four years old then. He was writing her from Alcolu when I was four? I thought he was in California then.
I stashed the record album and letter where I’d found them, but decided to keep the panda with me. I couldn’t bear to put him back. I could easily say that I spotted it in the closet while looking for an extra blanket.
I filled myself up with two bowlfuls of delicious stew, and then lay down on the sofa. Helen sure could cook, but now I could barely move I was so stuffed. I rubbed my hands over my bulging belly and thought about Mama and J.P. Soon drowsiness moved into sleep.
Gerald the Pullman porter was wearing a top hat and tails. He was blowing a police whistle and yelling at me. “A-OOOOGA!” he kept shouting. “A-OOOOGA!” I started laughing and he laughed, too, then called me to him.
“Ella… Ella, honey…” he was saying. He sounded funny and I kept on laughing. He was gently calling my name. “Ella… Ella, baby. Wake up, honey.”
I opened my eyes and saw Mama standing over me. She wasn’t in her work clothes anymore and was wearing a pretty pink housecoat with red flowers on it instead. Her feet were bare, showing off shiny red toenails.
“Was I sleeping long?” I asked. I could hear Helen in the kitchen, rattling pans, while Duke Ellington played on the radio.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Mama explained, and smiled. She sat back down next to me.
I sat up and wiped the drool that had leaked down my left cheek. Mama straightened the pillows, then brushed the straggly hairs away from my forehead. I scanned the room with sleepy eyes in search of the special something she’d promised, but I didn’t see anything new.
When I caught sight of the coat closet, I remembered my discovery from earlier.
“Mama?” I was groggy, still in a half sleep, but I had to ask her the question. “What’s my daddy’s name?”
Mama’s smile dropped and she reached for the panda in my arms. “Oh, Ella. I think I told you—Granny surely told you—that your daddy is off in California. Or was, anyway. It’s been so long now.” She lifted the bear and carried him to the coat closet. Without a word, she placed him up on the shelf. “You been snooping around? What did I tell you about that?”
“No, Mama,” I said. “I was just wondering what his name was.…”
“Oh, Ella.” She sounded disappointed. With her head still deep in the closet, she said, “You were snooping around in my things.” She sucked her teeth and mumbled to herself. I couldn’t see past her body in the doorway of the closet, but I must’ve knocked something over or hung the fur coat up wrong. Now she was mad at me.
“No,” I lied. “I just saw the bear is all. He was so cute. I’m sorry.”
She stepped away from the closet, closed its door, and smoothed her hair with her hands. She cut me a serious look, frown on her brow and mouth twisted.
“Mama,” I said again. “I’m sorry. Really.”
I saw her soften. She sat next to me and gave me another smile. “Don’t worry, baby.” She ran her hand over my braids, trying to tame the frizzy hairs that’d come loose. “Ella, what do you say I hot-comb your hair? It’ll be so pretty! You ever had your hair straightened before?”
I shook my head. A new savory smell was coming from the kitchen. I turned and craned my neck to see Helen at the stove.
“Yes, let’s do that!” Mama said, drawing my attention back to her. “I don’t have to work at all tomorrow,” she continued. “We’ll pretty up that head, then go into Harvard Square for lunch.”
“Do all the colored girls wear their hair straight in Boston?” I asked.
“Well, quite a few of them do, yes,” she said.
“Will I have to do it every week for school?” I asked.
“Oh… I don’t know.” She stood and walked toward the kitchen, no longer smiling. “Maybe so.”
“Maybe we can walk by my school tomorrow and look at the girls on the playground.” I followed her to the kitchen. “See if they hair is kinky or straight.”
Mama pulled two juice glasses from the cupboard, tapped Helen on the shoulder with them, and Helen nodded to her. Then Mama went to another cupboard, retrieved a bottle of brown liquor, poured a little in each glass, and handed one to Helen, who was shuffling something around in the frying pan.
“Will I be starting up at the new school after the Christmas break?” I asked. “It’s already gonna be late in the school year, but I think the sooner I get enrolled, the sooner I can make me some new friends.”
Mama leaned back against the kitchen sink and took a sip from her glass.
“Let’s see, baby. I don’t know yet.” She moved closer to Helen, handed her the other drink, and they clinked glasses. She then poked her nose over the stove. “Mmm… that smells so good.”
“Mama?” She took another quick gulp of whiskey before she turned to me and raised her eyebrows.
“Yes?”
I was still thinking about J.P. and my discovery, but I didn’t wanna make her mad again.
“Can you grab the plates down, Luce? It’s just about done,” Helen said. Mama grabbed plates, napkins, forks.
“Um…” I started.
Mama turned to Helen. “Knives?”
“Yes, please. For the chicken.” Helen pointed to the sizzling brown meat in the pan. “Thank you.”
But then I thought seeing as Mama never talked about my daddy, maybe asking about him in front of Helen wasn’t such a good idea.
“What is it, Ella?” Mama asked as she poured juice into a glass for me.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Excuse me.”
I wandered out of the kitchen and headed for the bathroom.
I’d ask Mama about my daddy another time. When she was in a better mood and rested. I didn’t wanna bother her or upset her. Still, I couldn’t get the image of her singing, and him there with her, out of my head. But then: that postmark from years after I was born. It just made no sense.
In the bathroom, I reached a hand up into the hair along the back of my neck and forced my fingers into the thick tangle of it. If I was back at home, Granny would sit me on the floor while she sat behind me on the sofa easing those knots out with grease. Bear would be licking my face like crazy. He loved it when we were way down o
n the floor like him.
Back in the kitchen, Helen and Mama were laughing low, sharing a secret.
I wished I had Bear with me. Maybe we could get us a dog. A companion I could share my secrets with in this strange new place.
ella
Clink, clink, clink!
The metal banging sound came from the bicycle I was on as I tried to reach Mama through a large crowd gathered around a pile of dead birds. She was on the other side of the circle with a man. At first he was her old boyfriend Harold Cook, then he turned into a soldier. Henry was behind me on a bike telling me to hurry up, but every time I tried to move, I struck a mailbox, or a parked car, or a bench. Each time, a loud Clink! sounded. Then, suddenly, I wasn’t even on the bike. I was trying to get to Mama on foot, and there was nothing in my path. No crowd. No birds. No city. Just the clinking. Soon the dream fell away and it was just that loud sound.
The city shook me awake from the strange dream.
I slowly opened my eyes and realized where I was and where the sounds were coming from. It was the apartment’s radiator.
Clink! Clink!
Mama had shown it to me and told me not to touch it ’cause it could get real hot. She didn’t tell me about all the racket it could make.
The sun was just coming up outside, streaming soft light into the room through the curtains. I looked around and spotted a small poster advertisement for the Cotton Club in Harlem, New York. I hadn’t noticed it before. It was a drawing of a colored lady, only this lady didn’t have no top on! She had on high-heeled shoes and a skirt made out of flowers, real short in the front and flowing in the back like a pheasant’s tail. She was leaning back and grabbing her forehead, a big smile on her face. In front of her, a man was blowing a horn and little black musical notes were flying out of it. I guess she was overwhelmed by all that music. Maybe that’s why she was grabbing her head like that. I don’t know. I sure couldn’t figure out why she didn’t have no top on.
The apartment was still. I remembered it was Mama’s day off, and figured Mama must’ve been sleeping and Helen had already left for work at the Naval Yard.
The city was awake, though quieter than usual. It was still pretty early. I walked to the window and was surprised to see so few cars on the road, so few people walking. I looked up, across the alleyway, and the little girl from the happy family was in the window, looking directly at me. She laughed and went running off. I wanted her to come back, though I didn’t know what I’d do if she did.
After carefully folding my bedding, I went to rustle up some breakfast for me and Mama. I only found one egg and two ends of bread, but if there’s one thing we Hankersons pride ourselves on, it’s being resourceful.
Looking farther into the icebox and in the cupboards, I found an onion and a potato with little flowers growing out of it. I cut off the flowers, scrubbed the potato good, and fried it up in the pan with half of the onion. I fried the other half of the onion up with the one egg, then added some water to it and scrambled it until it was really fluffy. I toasted the bread in the oven and, when that was ready, arranged everything on two plates and took them to Mama’s room so we could dine together. Just the two of us.
I balanced the plates on my forearm like I’d watched the ladies at the diner in Charleston do. Henry and I had both got real good at it and often brought food out that way at dinnertime, though Granny near had a fit every time. Made her a nervous wreck.
“Y’all gonna break the only dishes I got!” she’d say.
I turned the doorknob slowly, quiet as I could be, so I wouldn’t startle Mama awake.
She was asleep, lying on her back, one arm stretched up over her head. Her mouth was open a little and I thought I could maybe hear her even snoring quietly. Nestled deep into Mama’s armpit, one arm wrapped round her waist, was Helen. The thin strap of her slip hung limp from below her shoulder. Her cheek rested against Mama’s collarbone. Both of them breathed heavily. Silently. Deep in sleep.
I tried to quiet my breath that seemed suddenly too loud as I backed out of the room slowly, careful not to let my shaky hands lose hold of the plates of food. The door snapped shut louder than I’d meant it to.
“Ella?” I heard my mother call from inside.
I quickly took the plates to the kitchen and ran to the sofa. I pulled the blanket over my head and didn’t say a thing. I just listened.
There was some rustling in the bedroom. Voices. Then the door opened. Mama’s house slippers scraped across the floor from the bedroom to the kitchen.
“Ella!” she called. “Get up, honey! Come eat this beautiful breakfast with me!”
The food had to be cold by now. She’d ruined the breakfast I’d made us. She and Helen had both ruined it. They’d ruined everything. Helen needed to leave. I didn’t want to share Mama with her anymore.
Still, I couldn’t help my stomach gurgling. I’d been trying to ignore the smell of buttered toast that hung over the apartment, but now my stomach was telling me to get up and eat.
When I got to the kitchen, Mama was sitting at the table, drinking the cold coffee and staring out the small window above the sink, lost in thought. She didn’t hear me come in. I settled into the empty chair and it creaked under my weight. Mama reached across the table and took my hand, stroking each of my fingernails, one by one, with her thumb.
“This is lovely,” she said. But she didn’t mean it. The food even looked cold. It looked like fake food. Like phony, shop window, display food set in front of two department store mannequins with painted smiles and stiff clothes.
“It’s cold now,” I said. Mama opened her mouth to speak, but quickly stopped, got up from her chair, and went to the stove. She lit the oven and adjusted the temperature.
“That’s not a problem,” she said, taking the plates from the table and then placing them in the center of the oven. “Did you know that in the Far East they put ice in their coffee? It’s true.” She took a big gulp of her cold coffee and smiled. I began gathering the toast crumbs from the tabletop. I dusted the last of them from my fingers into a neat pile.
Mama sat down across from me. “Wanna take a walk down by the river today? It’s where I go sometimes to remind myself of home.”
Home. I hadn’t heard Mama speak about South Carolina yet. It was like she’d walked away and never even thought of going back.
“You ever miss home?” I asked her, flattening the crumb pile with my palm so that the toast all came up from the table when I lifted it.
“All the time. Mostly I miss you.”
“Why don’t you come back, then?” Why did she have to live all the way up in stupid ol’ Boston? It was crowded and loud and it smelled bad. Why wouldn’t she want to be where it was beautiful… and where she could be with me?
“Oh, honey…” She went to the stove and retrieved our warmed-up breakfast. “There ain’t nowhere for me to work in Alcolu.”
“And you can sing here,” I said under my breath.
“Yes. There is that, too. I couldn’t do that back in Alcolu neither.” She paused. “You do want me to sing, don’t you?”
The bedroom door opened again and I heard Helen’s heavy heels on the wood floor. She was walking toward the bathroom. Mama called to her.
“Helen, could you please bring me the Royal Crown oil when you come out?” She turned to me and brightened. “I’m gonna do your hair!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Helen called to Mama.
Stupid ol’ Helen! Why couldn’t she just go away so I could talk to my mama in peace?
“Ooh! I can hardly wait to see my little princess’s pretty hair!” Mama said, a triangle of toast between her teeth.
I cleared the dishes while Mama got to setting up to straighten my curls.
“Come sit.” She motioned me to her.
She placed one of the kitchen chairs close to the stove where she had the hot comb and curling iron warming directly over the fire. She stacked three large books on its seat so that I’d sit taller for her.
“That’s better,” she said. “I can get a better look at what I’m doing when you’re up here.”
The comb had just been sitting there on the flame the whole time we moved the chair and found the books. Just sitting on top of that flame getting hotter and hotter. Was she really gonna pull that hot fork through my hair?
Mama walked around in front of me, one hand pulling pieces of my hair straight up and out, like she was checking the length or how strong it was. Maybe she was wondering if all that heat would burn it right off. She tapped the back end of the comb on her palm a few times. I knew that comb had to be real hot, but Mama did it like she couldn’t be bothered with the heat. She licked her thumb and tapped it on the front of the comb. It made a quick hiss and she brought the comb to the edge of my hairline near the temple. I pulled my shoulder to my ear and my whole body went stiff. I tried not to breathe.
Mama went on to burn me five times. She felt real bad about it. She smeared Vaseline on the burns, then used what was left over on her hands to smooth my hair back from my face, twirling the ribbonlike curls she’d made around her fingers, one by one, and pulling the ends smooth.
“There’s my beautiful girl!” Mama said. She opened the small window over the sink to let some of the burned-hair smell out and some of the fresh air in.
“Very pretty,” Helen said. “Do you like it, Ella?” I was holding up Mama’s mirror and could see her standing close by, looking me in the eyes and asking through the reflection. Mama was right behind me, tidying curls, busy making sure I was perfect.
I met Helen’s gaze, then quickly looked away. “Yes.” I nodded and smiled.
Mama yanked the towel from around my shoulders and wiped her hands.
“Let’s get a move on! I’m starving,” she said. “I know you are, too! We’ll eat in Harvard Square.”
I reached for my Stetson.
“No, no. Leave that ol’ thing here.” She swatted me playfully with the towel. “You don’t need it now.”
As I stood and turned, I saw her whack Helen’s bottom with the towel before she left the kitchen. Helen laughed as she watched her go, but after a moment felt my stare and turned. She gave me a weak smile, but I didn’t smile back. I walked right on past her to the living room.
How High the Moon Page 7