A Long Time Comin'

by Robin W. Pearson

  Sarah ducked down beside her sister. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “It’s Mama, and she’s hot! I forgot to pick up the fish.” Mary peeked through the protective cover of the trees before daring to cut her eyes Sarah’s way.

  Sarah covered her smile with her hands.

  Mary’s lips twitched, too. “Guess I’m gonna have to put them dreams on hold just a bit. What do you think?”

  Sarah’s eyes laughed over her fingers.

  Sober, Mary stared at the house and delicately fingered her sore ears. “She really is gon’ wear me out, isn’t she?”

  Sarah nodded slowly.

  ——————

  “No, that’s not the right color. Hmmm. No, this is too much for a volunteer. Where’s the blue—?”

  Mary moved aside several outfits in search of her blue pantsuit. She just hoped it hadn’t fallen into the “sell it” pile currently housed outside in the garage. Determined to find the ensemble, she pushed around clothes, shoes, pocketbooks, hatboxes, and belts. There was no room to move anything around; if she did find the pantsuit, she’d have to iron it.

  An hour later, Mary emerged from her bedroom—draped in orange from her ginger-flavored lips to her carrot-colored toenails. Her sandals staccatoed up the linoleum tile hallway toward the front door. She couldn’t find her purse on the table in the front hall where she was sure she’d left it. Snorting like an angry bull, she tramped back to the family room. She picked up piles of magazines and books.

  “What are you looking for, Ma?”

  Mary barely spared her son a glance. Simeon’s six-ten, three-hundred-pound frame enveloped the love seat squatting under the small window. She grunted as she edged over a stack of unpacked boxes.

  “Ma. Ma? What are you—?”

  “My purse.”

  “It’s over here.” Simeon waved her leather Michael Kors bag.

  “What are you doing with my purse?” She tripped over his size sixteens as she pranced to the sofa. “And move these shoes to your closet, please, before I break a leg!” She snatched her bag and rummaged through it.

  “My room doesn’t have a closet, remember? And I didn’t take anything from your bag, if that’s why you’re counting your money.”

  Mary tucked her five one-dollar bills back into her calfskin wallet. “Well, whose fault is it that you don’t have a closet?”

  Simeon watched her check her lipstick in her compact. “Where are you going? To a job interview?”

  She snapped shut the case. “You’re sitting there on my couch, watching my cable—” she spied an empty bag of chips on the floor by the couch—“eating my food in my house. And you ask me if I’m going to look for a job?” Mary’s voice increased a decibel with each my. “No, I am not going on an interview. I’m going to the center. To try to help people who are trying to help themselves.” Mary headed toward the front door.

  “I didn’t ask to be cut from the team!” Simeon shouted from the sofa. “So I couldn’t come back from my injury. At least I hope this surgery will get me back in the shape and some team will pick me up.”

  Simeon’s words froze Mary just as she placed one hand on the knob. She clip-clopped back to face Simeon and pointed to the stack of paperwork on the coffee table. “And we have the bills to show for it. All your hoping . . .”

  He pushed his considerable frame to a standing position. He picked up the crutches that rested on the wall by the sofa and hobbled closer to Mary. “You know, I’m the one who watched his football career go down the tubes. Not you. All you had to do was give up a way of life you couldn’t afford anyway.”

  “I couldn’t afford—”

  “That’s right. You couldn’t afford. That was my money you spent every month for that view of the river. That was my money you blew every night on those expensive dinners. You don’t even know how to spell chateaubriand, let alone eat it. It was my money that bought all your clothes, including that orange number. And the rest of my money will pay those bills.”

  Mary nodded slowly. “You know, you’re right. But do you know what? I put in hard time getting you where you are. Or rather where you were. I cleaned up the nasty mess of other people to make sure you had food on your table. I’m the one who worked nights to get you clothes for school. I scrimped and saved every penny to make sure you got to college. I asked you—no, begged you—to stay in school, to get your diploma, but no, you had to leave early and make the big time. Well, you made it, didn’t you? You made it all the way back to where we started. With no degree, no money, and no knee apparently. What do you plan to do now? Are you just going to sit around here and eat potato chips and watch TV all day?”

  “I don’t have to apologize to you or make anything up to you. You did what any good mother is supposed to. I didn’t see you complaining a year ago when you took all day getting your hair done and your nails polished.”

  “I earned it!”

  “You didn’t earn anything! I was the one sweating in the sun, getting beat up every day. You reaped the benefits of my hard work.”

  Mary took in their humble surroundings. “Well, I’m not reaping much now, am I? I think Mama’s house is bigger than this.”

  “Does it matter, Ma? We have a roof over our heads, food on the table—”

  Mary laughed. “If you knew what I knew, you wouldn’t ask me that question, Simeon. I’m fifty-six years old. This is not where I dreamed I’d be living out my golden years. I can’t even afford a midlife crisis!” She slammed the door.

  She walked to her gray BMW parked in the drive and climbed behind the wheel. She started the ignition but didn’t move. Instead, she stared at the back of the sign taped to the inside of the windshield, trying to see how many words she could make out of Ǝ⅃AƧ ЯOꟻ. Seal, afro . . .

  Tap-tap-tap!

  She spun, ready to face Simeon ordering her from his car.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” the postal carrier apologized once the automatic window had whirred to rest inside the door. “Looking good today. Here’s your mail.”

  Mary nodded curtly. After he was gone, she riffled through the small stack of letters. “Bill. Bill. Bill. Mama—?” Mary tossed the other mail to the passenger seat. She slid one manicured nail under the lip of the thick envelope. Two separately folded letters. She opened the one with the older postmark.

  Mary

  You probly wondrin ware yo letter ben. Som of the chillun got thers a wile bak. Sorry it took me so long, but I had to get miself together. Not that you ever had much time for me. But I just dont wont you to thank you not speshal like the others. You is. I culd always see you dint feel like you fit in, but you all the same, you and the chillun and B . . .

  Mary looked at the house she and Sim had just moved into. I’m nothing like the rest of them. She closed her eyes. I am nothing like them or you. Slowly she opened her right eye, half-expecting to find herself in the parking garage of her former high-rise condominium. But there she sat, all four wheels firmly gripping the cracked concrete. Blinking away tears, she continued reading:

  I member the day I lef. You was sittin on the front steps lookin off to somwer. I sed goodby to you and you waved but dint say nuthin. You dint know that was the last time you was gon’ see me. But I dont thank you seen me that day nether. I never culd see wat you was lookin at but I can tell you saw it good and cleer. I lef lookin for somthin miself but I aint foun it yet. I got a way of livin a little better than I was but I aint got no happyer. Its just a diffrent way to be sad. I hope you thank bout that for you run off.

  If you ever git that ich to spred yo wings com over this way. Its too bad you cant bring yo babe brother. Its hard to thank I aint go never see him again. Im at 23 Reedy Creek in Jasper. I aint got much and you may jus keep on movin, but I be glad to shar wat I got for however long you need it.

  “Henton,” she read. “Well, I’ll be. My old man. From nowhere he came and to nowhere he returned. But I know Henton didn’t think I’d really go stay w
ith him. Well, at least he offered, but talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire.” Mary dug around in her purse for her iPhone.

  “Hello?”

  “Lis?”

  “No, this is Evelyn. Aunt Mary?”

  No one but Evelyn ever called her that. Even her other nieces and nephews called her by her given name, just as she’d insisted. No use looking old before her time. “Hey, sweetie. Where’s your mama?”

  “She’s at the salon. How are you? How’s Sim?”

  Mary cleared her throat. “Fine, honey. Listen—”

  “Still enjoying that beautiful view you’re always talking about? You know, Mama tried to call you a few days ago, but she said the number—”

  “We got rid of the landline. You can reach me on my cell.” Mary cleared her throat again. “Listen, Ev, I wanted to ask Lis about a letter from your granddaddy.”

  This time Evelyn cleared her own throat. “Letter from Granddaddy?”

  “Yes, I just read this old letter from Henton—he wrote it after he skipped out on us. He invited me to stay with him, of all things. I wanted to ask Lis about it. She always knows a little about everything going on at home.” Mary listened to the silence in North Carolina. “Do you know something about it?”

  “Is that the only letter you’ve read?”

  Mary looked down at the second letter. “Actually, yes, it is. Then I take it you do know about this?”

  “I think you need to read the other letter, Aunt Mary.”

  She wanted to reach through the phone and wring her niece’s neck. “Evelyn. What’s going on? Why am I getting Henton’s letter a hundred years after the fact?”

  “Aunt Mary. Read it and then call Mama. But I need to go. Kevin’s calling.”

  “Ev—”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s been nearly a week since I’ve heard my husband’s voice. I promise I’ll have Mama call you back. Love you, Auntie. Bye!”

  “Well, I’ll be—” Mary stared at her phone in disbelief before she picked up the second letter. “Let’s see what else that man had to say.”

  I hope this letter finds you alive and well. I haven’t heard from you in some time, so I don’t know what’s going on in your life. Well, a lot’s been going on in mine.

  I know how busy you are, so I’ll just jump right into it. To put it simply: I’m dying—acute myeloid leukemia. And I’m going to be pretty quick about it if these doctors got it right. What does this mean to you? Not much. I haven’t hidden piles of cash under my mattress all these years, and you won’t be getting any of that expensive jewelry you love to wear. God knows why, but you do. And you know I can’t leave behind property and a big house. But I will leave you some experience. It’ll mean something to you in the coming years, even if it ain’t worth nothing to you now.

  I know we didn’t have much when you children were running around here. You used to ask me, “Why don’t we have this?” and “Why can’t we do that?” I bet you’ve had your fill of doing this and that, but I wonder if it’s enough, if you found what was missing. I know one thing you have is a fine son. He’ll probably never step a foot into this old house, with all that fine living he’s used to, but you must be proud. It don’t happen too often that a boy will move his mama all the way across the country and set her up the way Simeon did you.

  Most of the time children up and leave and never look back to their beginnings. I don’t mean to say nothing about all y’all, but it’s just a fact of life. I left my own peoples, and they had a fine life in South Carolina—a big house, money.

  Mary almost dropped the page she was reading and asked the empty passenger seat, “They had what?”

  But money don’t matter. You can have all the money and things in the world, but they won’t bring you no peace of mind. I know, I know, being poor don’t bring much peace of mind either, but it helps you get to the quick of things, if you know what I mean.

  My memories and my thoughts are about all I’m going to leave you, so you won’t have to bother about the dirt around this place here. But there’s value in knowing that your mama loved you enough to scrape and scratch this old dirt to make you a home, to feed you and clothe you. It’s a small house that gets dusty and dirty, but it’s mine and I don’t owe nobody for it. I clean up my own mess.

  God trusted me to be a steward over my living children and grandchildren, and I’m grateful. No, I don’t see them much, but I know they wouldn’t be in this world except by me. And that settles my spirit, a feeling I didn’t have when all you kids was scrambling around here.

  I know you like stuff around you, but you need something that somebody can’t take away when the bill come late or the money get short. Maybe you is the way you is ’cause of how you was raised, but then I put the same ingredients in you that I put in the rest of the batch and you all taste different. Well, I guess that’s a good thing.

  Mary, don’t worry. My being sick shouldn’t touch your life much at all. I know you can afford to take the next plane out and be here today, but I hope you don’t. I don’t have to see you to tell you I love you, and you don’t need to see me neither to hear it. Take care of yourself and that fine son of yours. Give him my best, which is pretty good, if I say so myself.

  Mary sat in the idling car for thirty minutes while the raindrops spattered on the glass and the birds took cover in the trees. A sudden rap on the window snapped her out of her reverie.

  Simeon leaned on his crutches. Rain beaded in his hair. “Mama!”

  She glared at Simeon for a second or two.

  He knocked again. “Mama!”

  She pushed the button and let down the window—barely. “What is it, Simeon?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m reading the mail.”

  “Can’t you read inside?” Wobbling, Simeon tried to hide his bulk under his hand as the rain picked up.

  “No, I can’t.” She reached over to the passenger seat for the stack of unread mail and stuffed it through the crack. “Oh, and here.” Mary snatched down the Ǝ⅃AƧ ЯOꟻ sign. She pushed it through. It landed with a smack! on the wet ground. “I may not have a home to call my own, but this is my car.” Then she put the BMW in reverse and backed out of the drive, nearly crushing the toes on Simeon’s good right foot.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SARAH, AGE 17

  Sarah bundled up her two skirts, three shirts, two dresses, pair of church shoes, and two weeks’ worth of underwear into the borrowed satchel. She tiptoed to the bathroom for her toothbrush, deodorant, and feminine napkins. She didn’t have money to buy more. All she had was twenty-seven dollars, enough to get her to New York on the Greyhound bus.

  But not enough to come back.

  Was that a squeak? Sarah froze. Here, nothing squeaked unless it was supposed to. She wasted precious minutes determining whether it was a rare trick of the wind before she slipped back to her room, stuffed her sweater into the bag, and shimmied to the window she’d wedged open earlier. Departure at 1:30 a.m. sharp. She dropped the bag to the ground and looked back one last time.

  There she saw Milton, Thomas, Mary, Ruthena, Little Ed, and Elisabeth huddled around “marbles,” stones of different colors, shapes, and sizes that Thomas had taken months to collect, smooth, and polish. He was showing them how to shoot just so, but most of all, how to do it without too much excitement and alert Mama. Seventeen-year-old Sarah wished she could go back to scoop up baby Milton out of harm’s way. If only—

  “If you gon’ git, then git. Don’t be breakin’ my sash wit yo’ big be-hind.”

  Sarah immediately returned to the present, but not quickly enough to avoid falling out the window. Fortunately, she landed on the padded satchel. Unfortunately, she sprawled right in front of worn slippers that, like Mama, had seen better days.

  “Better. Yo’ feet belong on the ground and not up in my winda.”

  Numb and dumb, Sarah brushed herself off.

  “So where you headed?” Mama bent down and retriev
ed Sarah’s bag. She took her daughter’s right hand and placed the handle in it.

  Out of instinct, Sarah grasped the curved wood tightly.

  “It look like you got all yo’ stuff in there. Better not be none of mine.”

  Sarah finally mustered the strength to speak. “No, ma’am.”

  “You best be tellin’ the truth. I ain’t got the kinda money to be fundin’ nobody’s world tour.” Mama took in Sarah’s jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers. “So where you headed?”

  “New York.”

  “Well, take care. I hear ’bout strange thangs from up thataway. I hope you got more’n what you got on if you hope to make it up there.” Mama shook her head wisely as if she knew all about the dangers and mysteries of a big northern city. “You got somethin’ lined up?”

  “My friend up there will help me get into secretary school. Then I can get a job.”

  “But where you gon’ stay in the meantime?”

  “She’s got an extra room.”

  “Well, I know she ain’t gon’ let you stay there for nuthin’. You ain’t got money to pay no rent. She liable to slam the do’ right in yo’ face the minute you show up on her stoop.”

  “No, Mama. It’s not like that! I can stay there for free. At least until I start making money. She needs a roommate, but she doesn’t trust just anybody. She figures my being there will help her as much as it will help me.”

  “You got this all figured out, aintcha?” Mama asked quietly, lethally. “You got school lined up, even a place to stay. You been plannin’ this fo’ how long, this run fo’ freedom? You was just gon’ let us wake up and find you gone. Is that so?”

  It was then Sarah saw the trap. “No, Mama—”

  “Then I s’pose you tried to wake us, but we was just sleepin’ too heavy. ’Course, if you looked fo’ me, I wan’t there ’cause I was waitin’ for you out here.” Mama stared at her. “What? Was we just s’posed to hope you warn’t dead somewhere?”