A Long Time Comin'

by Robin W. Pearson

  Sissy sighed and started again, “‘Tom—’”

  “You can skip that part.” He grimaced.

  Sissy read slowly as she struggled with the unfamiliar spelling.

  “How you doin boy? I ben thankin bout you. It ben a long time but I thank bout all yall everday. The good times we had, not bout wat yall mus be thankin bout me for leavin. Like wen we went fishin in Falk’s Pond. You member? You was—”

  “That was just before he left, the day we went fishing. Henton was so determined we were going to catch something, but I just wanted to get home. I knew Mama would be looking for me, but Henton wouldn’t let me leave.”

  “Maybe he wanted to spend some time with you?”

  “He didn’t care about spending time with me. He just wanted to tick Mama off, show her he was the man of the house or something.” Thomas’s eyes checked out the scene in the rearview mirror, flicked over to the other mirrors, and then returned to the road before him. “I guess he was showing her who was boss, even though we all knew it wasn’t Henton. He kept me out there all day, and boy, was I mad—I was crying, I was so mad. I mean, I still had to do all my chores when I got home, and he went off somewhere . . . left Mama and us alone as usual.”

  Sissy sat quietly.

  “Are you going to finish?”

  She only gave him the eye before once again picking up the letter and resuming:

  “You member that day. You was cryin and carrin on bout them worms I made you pick up. But we stuck to it til you thredded that hook and got yoself a fish. You was so proud of yoself you dint even mind doin them chores wen we got home.”

  Sissy stopped reading of her own accord this time. “But I thought you said—” She looked at him. After a second she wiped away Thomas’s tears with her fingertips. She squeezed his shoulder.

  “I wont ther long but I tryed to turn you into a man. I tryed to show you how to treat yo sistas so youd lern how women shuld be treated. And I—”

  “So I’d learn how women should be treated?” Thomas’s knuckles were white where they gripped the steering wheel. “He was barely around, and when he was around, he was either arguing with Mama or pretending to fix something that didn’t need fixing. He barely paid any attention to Elisabeth or Ruthena or Mary except to grunt orders, and he acted like he was afraid of baby Sarah. He was a worthless no-account. How can he say he tried to turn me into—?”

  “But you were so young when he left, Thomas.” Sissy’s low voice seemed to test the waters before wading in completely. “How can you remember things so clearly?”

  Thomas didn’t answer her question.

  “Thomas?” Sissy’s voice hovered barely over a whisper.

  “Mama,” Thomas answered hoarsely. “I learned about Henton from Mama. All she talked about was how my daddy wasn’t worth the dirt she swept out the house each day. About how he must not have cared about any of us, leaving us the way he did. That God was the only Father we’d ever have.”

  “But, Thomas, I wouldn’t ask your mama to sign an affidavit. She isn’t exactly an objective witness about your father. Whatever she said about him was told from the perspective of a woman scorned. I mean, how could she tell you anything good about him? He left her. But there had to have been something good or decent about him. She stayed married to him long enough to have seven—”

  “Really, nine. You’re forgetting the twins. Of course, Mama tries to forget Milton.”

  Sissy shook her head slowly. “And after all that time, he left her. That had to hurt. I know I would have tracked him down and put a hurtin’ on him. At least I would’ve sued him. I have connections with a great firm.”

  The corners of Thomas’s lips twitched. “Yes, you probably would have, but that’s not my mama. It’s not like she needed to tell me bad things about Henton, though, because his actions spoke for him. He left me, too. He left all of us, didn’t he? Henton was just as much a reprobate as she said. That’s all I need to know.” Thomas heard papers rustling. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m putting away the letter. I assume you don’t want to hear any more.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you can’t read them.”

  Sissy withdrew the pages and started reading Henton’s letter again—to herself this time.

  “Out loud.” Thomas issued the order like he was judging a court case. Upon seeing Sissy’s stony expression, he amended, “Please.”

  “. . . And I hope you can take wat I tawt you and make a good life for yoself won day. Im makin a life for miself now in Jasper. I got a room and a job. It aint much but I call it mine. I aint got to fite over who sposed to do wat or who dint do this or that. I can just do or not do as I pleas. Goodness knows you cant pleas B.”

  Sissy scanned the rest of the letter. “All that’s left is his inviting you to come visit and his address. He signed it Henton.” Sissy’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you find that curious?”

  Thomas considered her and her question just long enough to make the car veer toward the right. “What do you mean?”

  “That he would sign off with his given name and not ‘Dad’ or ‘Daddy’ or ‘Your father.’ Something like that.”

  “Because he wasn’t a father to us,” Thomas stated matter-of-factly, his tears all dried and wiped away. “He knew the truth. What kind of father abandons his children, especially right when a mother is at her lowest? Maybe that’s why I saw Mama with another man.” He nodded toward the other letter in Sissy’s lap. “Aren’t you going to read that one?”

  Sissy picked it up. “Haven’t you read it? You want to go through this again? Frankly, I don’t want to risk an accident. And the light is fading . . .”

  “Actually, I haven’t read it. I never got the chance. Will you read it now? I promise not to lose it. Nothing can be worse than hearing from that old man.” He caught Sissy’s eye for a second. “Really, you’re safe. It’s from Mama.”

  “All right. ‘Thomas,’” she read.

  “I still see you as my little tender bird. I practically had to throw you out this nest, even though the others all went jumping out of it on their own steam. You used to walk around here, asking so many questions. Even when you weren’t asking them, you had plenty of them in your eyes, stuff you was too afraid to say out loud. You wanted to know why wheels turned the way they did. Why the sky looked pink right before sunset. Why the grass wouldn’t grow and why we still had to sweep the dirt. Why your daddy left.

  Like most kids I suppose you looked to your mam and your pap for answers, for explanations for why life is the way it is. But I didn’t know the answers to a lot of your questions then, and I still don’t, so I hope you’re not still waiting on me to fill in all those blanks. Yes, I raised you out the dirt in front of my house right here in Spring Hope, but God get the credit for knowing all the answers. And I guess, well, He should.

  Consider this my last meal—you know, like those criminals sitting on death row. I know that ain’t the kind of law you practice (see, I pay attention), but I figure you close enough. You have to give them whatever they ask for to eat that last time, whether it be steak or eggs and bacon or pig brain. Well, this might taste like a healthy serving of pig brain, but you got to eat up.

  I can tell you, Thomas, that knowing the whys and why nots ain’t always the best thing for you. Take me for instance. I was hurting and aching for a long time. I finally took myself to the doctor—and he tells me why all right. He says I got acute myeloid leukemia.”

  Thomas’s eyes were as wide as Sissy’s when they met. He swallowed hard and nodded to her to continue.

  “Yep, I’m afraid it’s as bad as it sounds, and it definitely wasn’t the answer I was looking for. I’m not sure exactly how long I got left, but I been dealing with it. I’ve accepted it, as much as anybody can, knowing they about to die. I’m not taking any medicine or chemo. That’s only going to put off what should happen naturally. As the lawyer in the family, trust that everything’s in order, such as there is. Just see Mr. Cap
el in town when the time comes—and not before because he knows not to talk to none of y’all.

  Now, don’t think this letter is like one of them deathbed confessions you see in them movies, where people finally tell you where all the gold is buried or why they killed so-and-so. No, this ain’t about that. Whatever I didn’t think you needed to know then, well, I still think it. You know your mama, boy. Nothing much about me will change. I hear tell I popped out my mama’s belly with my mouth tight shut. Well, that’s the way I’m going to my grave, with my lips a straight line.

  No, I’m writing you some things you do need to know. Things like I love you, and I’m happy for you and that woman, Sissy. Rutheena says y’all ain’t really married in the sight of God, but I know being really married ain’t never done much for me, and God sure enough was looking on then. He was also looking on that day when I caught you in my closet. That look on your face helped me decide some things, make some changes. Hard things, but good and right things, and I appreciate you making them plain to me.

  That ain’t to say I don’t think you need to do right and marry that woman—you do know what God says about marriage. But yes, I am happy for you. You seemed to finally take off and fly. I used to tell you to be strong. Suck in those tears. Be a man. But turns out you is man enough—with some left over to start another. Maybe all that crying was good for you. Just don’t do no crying over me. Concentrate on taking care of yourself, little bird, and that little nest of birds you done got yourself. I suppose you got plenty of your own questions to answer now. You ain’t got time for no more.

  “Oh, Thomas . . .” Sissy’s words were heavy with the mournfulness they carried. It was all she said . . . until she screamed, “Thomas!” as their silvery-blue Porsche veered toward the SUV on their left. Her hand flew to her chest as he jerked the convertible back into his lane and slowed almost to a crawl.

  “Take the next exit.” Sissy rubbed his shoulder. “Thomas, here. Turn here.”

  He crept to the first available space in the rest area and turned off the ignition. For once in his life, Thomas didn’t feel the desire to cry to relieve the pain. He just took in their surroundings as he let his head fall against the back of his seat. Around them, a group of leather-clad bikers leaned against their motorcycles. A father hurried his son into the men’s room. A young woman grasping a plastic bag walked her German shepherd in the grass beyond the restrooms. In the silence, Thomas reached across the console and intertwined his fingers with Sissy’s.

  “Do you know why she called me ‘little bird’?” he whispered.

  “No. Why?” she responded, just as softly.

  “Because she said she always had to first chew on whatever it was she needed to tell me, and then she’d give it to me one worm at a time, like a mother bird feeds her babies. She said I was ‘tender.’” He paused and watched an antique Ford roadster park beside them. “I used to hate that even more than being called ‘Tommy.’”

  He took in a big gulp of air. “But right now, I could think of worse things.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  MARY, AGE 16

  Even in the shade of the pine trees flanking the backyard, Mary’s cheeks felt flushed. Her eyes were squeezed closed, but two tears still managed to eke out their corners and run down each side of the perfect O of her mouth. “Eeeewwww!”

  “Hush up, girl.” Beatrice expertly jabbed the needle through Mary’s right earlobe.

  The teen pinched her lips together, but a high-pitched “Mmmmmm!” squeaked out.

  Unmoved, Beatrice raised her daughter’s chin and pushed the broom straw through the new hole.

  Sarah tugged on her older sister’s shirtsleeve. “You can open your eyes now.”

  Mary ignored Sarah’s muffled giggles and opened first one eye, then the other. “You done, Mama? How’s it look?”

  “Like some nonsense.” Beatrice doused the needle with alcohol as she prepared to do the second ear.

  “Then why are you piercing her ears?” Sarah took the bottle from her mama and screwed on the cap.

  “Because it don’t make sense for her to pay somebody else to do what I can do myself.” Beatrice held a lit match under the needle. “’Sides, my mam did it fo’ me.”

  She took your two dollars, too? Mary thought, knowing better than to let the words see the light of day.

  “But you never wear earrings!” Sarah cried.

  “Child, whatchyou know about never? You barely seen today. You thank my life started when I had ’Lis’beth? I took mo’ breaths than I could count befo’ that. Good, deep breaths.”

  Mary tried to picture her mama in something besides housedresses and a long silver braid. Her brain started to hurt with the effort.

  Sarah harrumphed as if she was trying to sound wiser than her thirteen years. She leaned closer to their mama. “Mary thinks her life is starting right this moment, with this ear piercing. But I told her those straws got more use in the broom than they have in her ears.”

  Mary sniffed. Sarah always was a little kiss up. “Well, one day, I’m gonna have diamond earrings where these straws are now. You’ll see.” She didn’t appreciate being laughed at, especially in front of Mama, who believed dreaming was what lazy people did for work.

  Yet Beatrice seemed to be doing some dreaming of her own. “My mam called ’em earbobs, and I didn’t know nobody else with a pair.”

  “Earbobs?” Sarah scooted over and leaned an arm on Mary’s knee. Mary jiggled her leg and pushed Sarah’s elbow, forcing her sister to catch herself with both hands on the ground.

  “Pinch right here. Hard.” Beatrice placed Mary’s fingers on a spot on her left lobe. “One day when Pap was gone to town, my mam took me and my sistahs out in the woods ’hind the house—

  “Like you did us,” Sarah breathed.

  This girl acts like she’s listening to some fairy tale. Mary pursed her lips. Her foot tapped out an impatient beat on the soft earth as she squeezed her ear as tightly as she could bear.

  “—and she pierced our ears. That way she wouldn’t have to clean up any mess we made on her flo’s.” Beatrice stood there with the needle between the tips of her fingers, her faint voice sounding like she was back in the woods with the mother the girls had never laid eyes on.

  “She said we was different from the rest of the world, and she wanted to do somethin’ to show it. Pap had a sho’ nuff fit when he came home and saw what she’d done. He didn’t wont us looking like harlots, he said. But then, after our ears healed up, he gave us pearls to wear. Said we was like the treasure the man found in the Bible and wanted to keep close. He never could say no to Mam.”

  Beatrice bent over and grasped Mary’s ear. She brushed away her daughter’s fingers and jabbed her lobe with the needle so fast Mary didn’t have the time—or the courage—to cry out. In a wink, Beatrice slid in the straw to secure the hole.

  Mary let out the breath she was holding with a quiet whoosh as she watched her mama pack up her implements.

  But Sarah couldn’t keep her curiosity zipped up. “Do you still have them? Your pearls?”

  Like she needs fancy earrings while she’s on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floors. Mary shook her head at her silly sister. Always buttin’ in.

  “When my pap threw me out the house, I threw away them pearls,” Beatrice responded simply. “Them earrings didn’t save me, and they ain’t gon’ save this girl here. But at least she can look pretty in the meantime.” She took the alcohol from Sarah. “Now, Mary, make sho’ you and them broom straws make it back to the house to get dinner on the table.”

  Beatrice crunched over the needles as she left their covering.

  “Well, that story sure wan’t worth my two dollars, but these holes better be. Sarah, are they even? How do they look?” Mary tapped her sister on the shoulder. “Sarah?”

  But her little sister didn’t turn back until the screen door had shut behind Beatrice. And even then, she didn’t give Mary as much attention as Mary felt she was d
ue.

  “Fine, I guess. As good as a broom straw’s gonna look.”

  “Well . . . I’m getting ready, and you’d best be, too, little Miss So-and-So.”

  “Getting ready? For what?” Sarah finger-combed the flyaway strands that had dislodged themselves from the two puffs of hair on either side of her head. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I look. Just ’cause I don’t prance around here shaking my high-yella tail like somebody else I know . . .”

  Mary, simpering, extracted the deeply buried compliment. “You’re right. There’s nothing wrong with you—long as you plan to live here with Mama all your life in this backwoods hole.”

  “Oh, hush, Mary. Ear piercings won’t save you. Didn’t you hear Mama—?”

  Mary flicked aside Sarah’s words as she would a pesky fly. “Think what you want. But I’m telling you Ruthena’s got the right idea.”

  “With what?”

  “With that song she sings. ‘Mmmm-mmm . . . One of these old mornings . . . Mmmm-mmmm . . . You gon’ look for me, and I’ll be gone . . .’” Mary hummed the words she didn’t know.

  Sarah laughed as she plucked the pieces of a pinecone. “But that song is talking about going to heaven. And you ain’t getting nowhere close, Mary.”

  But Mary kept waving her head side to side to the beat of the music in her head, her thick, wavy hair swinging.

  Sarah brushed off her striped hip-huggers. “You think you’re something else.” Her words sounded like half-compliment, half-insult.

  Again, Mary sucked up the affirmative and discarded the rest. “I sure do. And you better start thinking the same if you know what’s good for you.” The shadows were starting to grow longer, and Mary didn’t plan to get caught out there in those woods when it was dark. She sauntered from the woods, her hips swaying.

  But two seconds later, Mary was running, not strutting, back to her sister, feeling very much like a scared little girl and not the worldly young maven who had sashayed her way toward home a moment before. She dropped to her knees behind one of the pine trees and peeked out.