No One Is Coming to Save Us

by Stephanie Powell Watts

  “Nobody ever said she was easy,” Lana said.

  “I’d hate to meet that liar. I’m going to the bathroom.” Sylvia closed the door to the bathroom that doubled as a storeroom. Lana had a knack for decorating, but you wouldn’t know it from this one area of the shop. Stacks of toilet paper, paper towels, and white drying towels for hair and beauty supplies lined the walls. A big gap of flowery wallpaper curled and buckled open in the seam eye level from the toilet seat. Sylvia thought for the hundredth time that Lana should fix the loose toilet that wobbled when a body, even a child’s body, sat on it. She would quickly forget or decide she didn’t care enough to mention when she came back out.

  Lana stood by the window with the broom. The last thing she did at night was to sweep hair (always more than it looked like) from the old linoleum floor. Old people used to say to never let anyone have your hair or you could be controlled, cursed with a single stolen strand and the right combination of words.

  “You ought to do something about that bathroom,” Sylvia said.

  “What for? You need a view?”

  Sylvia sucked her teeth, the state of the toilet already evaporated from her mind.

  “What do you think Mama ever saw in Daddy, Lana?”

  “Don’t start talking about them. I mean it. He was available, had a job, was breathing, hadn’t been to jail, and his people didn’t screw each other or at least didn’t advertise it.” Lana stopped sweeping. “When you get like this you always start talking about Mama and Daddy. They did what they did. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Daddy wasn’t that bad. I’d have killed him but he wasn’t that bad,” Sylvia said. Their father had a thick country accent, a slow smile, a stillness their mother must have found mysterious at first, but infuriating once she learned him and realized he wasn’t a puzzle to figure out, since there was nothing more to him at all.

  “Oh, you don’t think so? You remember that time I wrecked the car? Remember that? I told Daddy there was something wrong with the brakes, but he sent me out anyway. I hit a tree. Remember? Broke my arm, cut my face. When I got back home from the hospital, you know what he said to me? ‘You disgust me,’ he said. I don’t even know what that means! Let me tell you right now, we did good, honey. We did good just to be here.”

  “I never heard that story.”

  “Yes you have. You said that the last time I told it,” Lana said.

  “Well I don’t remember it,” Sylvia insisted but something about the story did seem familiar. “I can’t keep all the old stuff straight.”

  “You need to talk to Ava, Syl. I’m being serious with you.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Did you talk to her? You’ve got to talk to her,” Lana said.

  “She’s up there with JJ Ferguson. How am I supposed to talk to her?”

  “What do you mean, up there?”

  “Just what I said. She’s with JJ. I wish he’d stayed back wherever he was.”

  “No you don’t, you missed him.”

  “I didn’t want this.” Sylvia stood up to see out into the street. “I thought Ava would set him straight. I never saw this coming.” The storefronts across from Lana’s were completely dark. The only shallow light of the evening came from the blue glow of the streetlamp in the square. A memorial to the Confederate dead jutted phallically from the town center. In all the years she’d lived in Pinewood she’d never walked around downtown or stopped to read the plaque at the monument or spent any time on the street. What had she done all that time?

  “JJ is a man. He can do what he wants with his life. You should see that house. It hurt me to see it. I’m ashamed to say.”

  “You ought to be ashamed. A black man gets something and even his people can’t leave him alone,” Lana said.

  “Don’t start with me.”

  “I’m just joking. That place hurts me and I wasn’t even there.” Lana laughed. “What do you hear from Henry?”

  “Tell me what’s going on, Lana. You keep asking questions and saying nothing.”

  “You have to talk to Ava. She’s hurting.”

  “I know she’s hurting. Don’t you think I know that? Tell me what you know, Lana.”

  “Henry has another woman.” Lana whispered. “That’s all I’m going to say. I shouldn’t have even said that.”

  Sylvia stared at Lana hoped she’d misunderstood what she’d just heard. Lana’s face verified that there had been no mistake.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Ava found out, Syl.”

  “I should have known.” Sylvia held together her shaking hands. She should have seen something. Why didn’t she see it? A hollow place formed in her chest, a yawning gap that would overtake her. She wanted to scream. “Even the weak ones find somebody weaker. Who is it?”

  “Sit down, Syl, catch your breath. It doesn’t matter who. At least right now it doesn’t.”

  “I’d want to know. Wouldn’t you?” Sylvia tried to think of the signs she should have recognized. She missed the obvious somehow. “Why didn’t she tell me, Lana?”

  “She’s having a hard time. Don’t get caught up in that. Be easy with her.”

  “When am I not easy? I didn’t drag her out of JJ’s. I thought about it.”

  “You should have taken me with you.”

  “I didn’t know you wanted to go.”

  “Why would I want to go anywhere?” Lana snorted. “If we’d both been there, we’d have talked some sense into her,” Lana said.

  “I did talk to her. What could I say? Do your homework? I wish I’d left here years ago when I was still young enough to start over. My children would have had a better chance.” Sylvia and Lana’s parents had been country people, dirt roaders who wanted a better version of the life their own parents had led. A bigger house with indoor bathrooms, a desk job, a freezer full of good meat. They hadn’t and had not wanted to move farther than a strong man could throw them from their original home place. Had she wanted that life for herself? Had she had a choice?

  “Let’s go up there, Syl? Let’s just talk to her.”

  “What are we going to tell her? What did I ever do right with a man?” Sylvia had meant to encourage her daughter. Mothers tell their girls that they are too temperamental, unkind, not easy like boys. They remind them that someone must choose them and they are lucky to be chosen. Sylvia had tried not to say any of that to Ava. Had she failed in that too?

  “You did good, Syl. She came to me because she didn’t want you to hurt.”

  “I have done too much wrong. I can’t fix it.”

  “Well I see right now you’re just going to feel sorry for yourself tonight. Why don’t you wish you’d been born the princess of England while you’re at it?”

  Sylvia’s laugh sounded like a hiss. “There’s nothing funny. Don’t do that.” Sylvia closed her eyes. For her final trick, when she opened them back up she would have disappeared. She stood up to leave.

  “Don’t go. Stay here a minute.”

  Sylvia walked over to the roller cart and separated the mass of rollers into neat stacks: small green ones with green, purple medium ones and jumbo pink with pink. Lana watched Sylvia a moment but then turned her back to her sister and washed out the shampoo bowl. For a couple of minutes neither of the sisters spoke.

  “You know what just came to my mind? You remember when I kept Devon for you that time and I took those pictures of him on the table with a bowl of oranges?”

  “I remember.”

  “He was about what, four or five? Where is that picture? That was such a nice one.”

  “I’ve got it,” Sylvia said. Thank God for Lana who understood when Sylvia felt anything deeply she was reminded of her son. Good Lana. She filled the gaps. “I think he’ll come back.”

  “What are you saying?” Lana said softly.

  “I haven’t given up.”

  “Here, put the rollers down and sit. Sit down,” Lana said. “You have to stop it. Do you hear me? You don�
�t get to go off the deep end. You don’t get to do that. Please don’t leave me.”

  “I’m here. I’m here. I know he’s not coming. I’m just tired and keep shooting off my mouth. Let me get up and go to bed like old ladies do.”

  “Not yet. Calm yourself. Sit with me. Let’s just sit. Okay?”

  Sylvia hesitated but leaned back into the cushion of the couch. Lana sat beside her. They did not touch or even look at each other but Sylvia could hear the soft pant of her sister’s breathing.

  “They said somebody in the county has rabies. A young person too. They used to scare us to death about rabies. You remember?” Lana asked.

  “I had nightmares about bats,” Sylvia said. “Can you believe that? I lived eighteen years with our mother and I spent a second of worry on a goddamn bat.” Sylvia glanced over at Lana.

  “You better stop,” Lana said and nudged Sylvia’s arm. She laughed too. “Rabid bats are amateur night compared to what we saw,” Lana giggled. “Rabies, my ass.”

  “All the time I’ve spent scared of something.” Sylvia said.

  “We’ll be all right, Syl. We are all right. You want to find some kids with crack?”

  “What would we look like? Old as we are,” Sylvia laughed.

  “Don’t you want to sometimes?”

  “Crack? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Not crack. Crack is whack. Haven’t you heard? Now a little weed.” Lana raised her eyebrows and put her fingers to her lips like she was smoking a joint.

  “What are you talking about?” Sylvia said genuinely surprised.

  “Who says I don’t?” Lana said, her eyebrows raised in question. “Not that much, but I do.”

  In Lana’s basement years and years ago with their husbands, smoking like teenagers instead of the middle-aged fools they were, listening to music, there was always music, time like smoke undulated around them—elastic and easily bent to their will. She had laughed full-throated and loud. Sylvia had not recognized herself.

  “Please, Lana. I’d know,” Sylvia said, but she wasn’t sure. “If I had some right now, I’d smoke it.” Sylvia laughed not sure if she teased or not.

  “I got it.”

  “Well what are you waiting around for, get it.” Sylvia wasn’t sure what to expect. It wouldn’t have shocked her a bit if Lana came back in the room yelling gotcha, Sylvia playing the straight man again.

  Lana unrolled a small plastic bag, took out a joint already spun into a twist. She searched around a bottom drawer and found a lighter. “You ready?”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years this was going to happen today. I should have known if anybody could surprise me it would be you. You know how many years it’s been?”

  “You’ve been missing it, honey. Don’t rush now. This is different from what you remember.”

  “It might be twenty years.”

  “Well the stuff is different now. You might just feel slow for a minute or two. You might feel like you’re floating. It’s strong. When you get used to it, it feels good. Don’t rush.”

  Sylvia put the joint to her lips and inhaled, like riding a bicycle, she thought. Both women sat in silence and looked out the window. “I feel dizzy, Lana. I don’t like it. I don’t like it.”

  “Give it a minute. You’re okay.”

  Poor Marcus, Sylvia thought. Another in a line of people she could not save. He’d been gathered up by the police with six other boys, too green, probably too terrified to remember what they all told him from the first day, at the first sign of trouble throw the drugs from your pocket as you run. Don’t get caught holding. “Twenty-one crack rocks,” Sylvia said.

  “Crack rocks.” Lana laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  Sylvia started to cry fat tears that dripped down her face. She made no hiccupping or convulsive sounds. For the second time in a few days she was dissolving from the inside.

  Lana could feel the air around them change, her sister change. She turned her head to Sylvia’s remarkably unlined face. “Syl? Are you okay?”

  I want my son, Sylvia thought, but she would not live another minute if she said it out loud.

  “Turn off the light, Lana,” Sylvia whispered. The streetlight glowed in the clear May night not yet thick with the blanket of humidity of summer that would crinkle the carefully straightened do’s most of Lana’s customers preferred. If you were there that night you might remark on how navigable the way looked without the fear of fog settling into the valley or the danger of erupting thunder clouds. You might note that no forgotten men hung in groups like on city streets. You might wrongly surmise their absence made the streets less mean. You might pass right by and never notice the two late-middle-aged sisters in their separate griefs in the storefront window. If you did notice them, you would not stop.

  Sylvia put the joint back up to her trembling lips. She wanted to tell Lana that for years she’d heard whispers that sounded like her son. She almost confessed that when she found herself alone she spoke into the air until it vibrated with her voice and waited for her son’s voice to echo back. She wanted to say that in waiting for her son she had almost surely failed to hear her daughter who clearly needed her, who probably knew better than to ask her for attention. She wanted to tell Lana everything that would identify her as total-lost like a wrecked car and the county people could certify her gone in the ways that they do and finally, finally she could experience the peace, the calm of the diagnosis. So that’s it! Everybody needs a diagnosis. Everybody has disease.

  “Oh, honey,” Lana said and put her hand on Sylvia’s, her warmth a comfort that hurt her to feel.

  “Please don’t say anything, Lana. Please, not right now.”

  30

  Used to be Highway 321 was the best way to get from Pinewood to Winston-Salem, though the old roadway twisted and knotted like a bad back. The fixed asphalt looked like a black velvet ribbon as wide as three of the old roads, undulating through Yadkinville to bigger piedmont towns. The grass looked like a loved bedspread spread across the rolling hills where small farms surrounded by pure white split-rail fencing lined the road. Devon didn’t like the new road. A small section still existed where a body could walk on the shoulder and feel the slight distance from the passing cars. If Devon concentrated he could hear above the din of the passing cars and into the weeds themselves. The air full of the noise of crickets, the brittle leaves shaking with the movement of undomesticated animals, though Devon was rarely quick enough to see more than a sharp flash of their wild bodies. Devon could see the actual expressions on the faces of bug-eyed children who turned, not in an unfriendly way usually, but with surprise as they watched him as long as he lasted through the back window.

  Devon walked to Morganton and to Hickory and once to Blowing Rock and almost to Boone. On a whim, he’d tried to find Tweetsie Railroad, the amusement park he’d loved as a child. The icon of the park, Fred Kirby, he’d watched on Saturday morning television had to be long dead. But he wanted to see the steam train that took visitors on a trip around the mountain. By the time he’d found the park it was blue with dark and hours closed. But it had been worth it to see the silhouette of the Ferris wheel against the mountain. He remembered the fast ride of the wheel, the stomach-lifting sensation of being at the top of the ride, his breath suspended as he turned, no other thought but the spinning wheel.

  Most of his walks were much closer to home. He would walk to a store at the edge of town where the woman behind the counter always talked to him, always reminded him to drink some water when he walked, “Soda will make you feel worser,” she’d say. She’d give him a bottle for free if he tried to leave without it. “Stay in the shade.”

  The first time he walked was by accident. Joy, his friend from the sandwich shop, came in on her day off with an extra ticket for a band Devon had never heard of playing a show in Winston-Salem. He didn’t have many friends and no girlfriends, but Joy had latched herself to him like an abandoned float in a pool, figuring they m
ight as well drift along together. Though she never said it. He didn’t ask anything of her, but went with her flow. Or maybe he was shy. Devon had never felt like a shy man, but even his family seemed to not be sure what he wanted or needed from them. It was up to the few women interested enough to stay around, determined enough to drag him out of his cave to stand in the light with them or he’d be ignored altogether. That there were other choices in life simply didn’t occur to Devon.

  Devon had not wanted to go to the show. As usual he was content to be at home in his room or on his porch or patio. Early in his life he recognized that he was best when he was by himself. Though he hated to admit his preference. People were suspect of loners. They looked for weirdness, strange preferences and inclinations, anything to suggest sinister motives. The things that would bore or annoy most people were fine with Devon. He liked to figure out the small machine that made a thing work. His mother thought he was smart but he actually felt like he was slower on the uptake, the last one to get the joke, while other people rushed on to the next idea. His focus was his brain’s attempt to understand what everyone else seemed to take for granted. On the table beside his bed, beside the orange cup WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDPA was his stack of spiral notebooks. He loved to sit and draw. Each notebook labeled in his looping big script. He used to draw cars, trucks, any transportation, before he graduated to caricatures of people. He drew women, mostly he drew Joy. She was a slight girl with delicate thin lips, a face that always looked like she was smarting from a slight. He never drew her smiling. He rarely drew her clothed, though he’d never seen her naked. Her lips he penciled in as black as her nipples. One day he would show her what he saw. She’d be embarrassed at the drawings, she might even hit him in that girl way she did. There was so much beautiful about her that he saw that Joy clearly didn’t know. If he wasn’t drawing he liked to look at his pictures of her, like looking through a photo album.