by Naima Coster
“Have you even been back to the Electric House? They just did Orlando. An all women and femmes cast, beautiful costumes—a few of the nights were even sold out.”
“I outgrew that place, Inéz. You know that.”
“And grew right into Golden River?”
Noelle pumped on the brakes a bit harder than she needed to. “I know you all find it backwards that I’m doing just what our mothers did when we could be doing anything.”
“Speak for yourself,” Inéz interjected. “My mother always worked.”
Noelle saw no point in defending Lacey May. She had worked, too, but she had taken no pride in it. She had gone about her life as if it were put upon her. Noelle refused to do the same.
“I want a baby. What’s so wrong with that? Isn’t feminism all about getting to decide what you want?”
“Not exactly.”
“You could have visited me, too. Or is the center of all life Atlanta?”
“Well, the idea of the suburbs is repulsive. And pregnancy—” Inéz shuddered. “Breastfeeding has always struck me as…bovine. What’s the big deal with motherhood anyway? I feel like I’ve got everything I need.”
“I want the experience of mothering. I can’t explain it.”
“Mothering. Is it a verb now?”
“It ought to be.”
“And Nelson? Is he as nuts about fathering?”
“You leave him out of this.”
“How can I?”
“If I have to choose between you and my husband, I know who I’d choose.”
They sat in uneasy silence for a while. Noelle felt a fervent thrum at her temples. She tapped her fist on the wheel. Inéz caught her fidgeting hand and kissed the knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m livid, too.”
“Because I moved away?”
“Because you forgot about me, and yourself.”
Noelle wasn’t sure how to answer her. Inéz spoke as if selves should be fixed, as if they couldn’t change. Noelle wasn’t choosing to make herself less. To become a mother was to multiply.
The Suttons lived on a hill, their house flanked by a garage the size of the house Noelle grew up in. An immense magnolia was in bloom on their lawn, the porch strung with lights, the shutters thrown open. They had hired a small staff to pass around appetizers. Noelle breathed a sigh of relief when she saw they were white college students in cheap vests. Inéz took her arm as they climbed the steep hill, and Noelle wondered whether she was fully forgiven.
A large mirror hung in the foyer, and Noelle took in their appearance quickly. Beside Inéz, she seemed somehow older, less vital. Her body was soft where Inéz’s was hard. She was tall and pale, her hair ragged. She had thought her green floral dress was sweet, but she could see now it was dowdy. Inéz wore a wine-colored dress, cut close to her waist, all her usual jewelry glistening.
“You’re beautiful,” Inéz said, as if reading her mind.
“Look who’s talking.”
They turned into the living room, arms linked, where the crowd burst in welcome. They shook Noelle’s hand and asked, predictably, after Nelson, but Inéz saved her. They were fascinated and stood agape at the glamour of her life—a dancer! the city! single! so beautiful! And, although they’d never say it—black! Her life was a puzzle to them, and Inéz didn’t play it up or down. The two of them stole away as soon as they could, snatching bourbon and lemonade from a passing tray.
“They seem so old,” Inéz whispered. “My grandmother is less astonished by my life.”
“Welcome to the burbs, mami,” Noelle said, and they laughed.
They found their way to the kitchen, the spread of bruschetta and olives, pungent wheels of cheese, dipping bowls of tapenade and oils, a few platters of quiche, a silver dish of spanakopita.
“That’s the thing about white people in this country,” Inéz said. “They always want to be from someplace else.”
“Not in North Carolina,” Noelle said. She imagined a spread with pimento cheese and hot-pepper jelly, crackers and deviled eggs.
They filled their plates and went to sit somewhere they’d be left alone to eat and finish their second round of drinks, but the Suttons found them, the Radlers in tow.
John Sutton was a willfully silent man. He listened more than he talked, his hair down to his chin, too long for a doctor. It was hard to know what there was to him, what he believed in. Nelson didn’t like him, any white man who didn’t spread his cards early on. His wife, Ava, was red haired and warm, impeccably mannered, but equally hard to pin down. They had two girls who played lacrosse. The Radlers were former North Carolinians, and Noelle felt that bond with them, although they’d lived outside Raleigh, on a farm with a house full of stained glass, chickens, and a band of sheepdogs. Brent was some kind of software salesman; Helene stayed home with their twins. Inherited wealth, Nelson had said, was the only way to explain it. Then he’d arched an eyebrow at Noelle and said, How do you think white people got houses like that in North Carolina? But the Radlers volunteered for the Boys & Girls Club. To Noelle, this seemed like an assurance.
“John and Ava. Brent and Helene.”
Inéz repeated their names, pointing at each pair with her hands pressed together in a steeple.
“That’s right,” Ava said. “Around here, everyone comes in couples. If people get divorced, they move away.” She laughed.
“Not as a rule, of course,” Helene chimed in.
Inéz stretched her arms overhead, amused. “Of course,” she parroted.
They politely asked Inéz about her latest production, and they nodded patiently, if confounded, as she explained it was an exploration of patriotism. The admission fees supported an organization working against voter suppression.
“There’s an issue we can all get behind,” John Sutton said, and he raised his glass unironically. Nobody toasted, but they all drank.
Ava looked toward the door as another couple swung in. “I do hope that new woman and her family show up tonight. Patricia—was that her name?”
“I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t,” Helene said. “Did you hear about that? The incident down at the pool?”
Noelle reached for another drink, her third, knowing it didn’t matter. There was no life inside of her. “What happened?”
John Sutton started to explain. “A new family moved in earlier this week. A nice couple. They’ve got a son about the girls’ age. Anyway, the newsletter hasn’t gone out yet this week, so we haven’t had a chance to announce their arrival. And this morning Patricia took her son down to the pool. She was reading a magazine, and he was diving in, splashing around.”
“A very normal thing,” Helene interjected.
“Yes, very normal—” Brent said.
Inéz slipped her hand into Noelle’s, as if she knew what was to come.
“To make a long story short, another resident confronted her. Asked if she lived in the community, said he hadn’t seen her around. He asked her for ID, and when she refused to give him any, he called the police.”
“Oh God,” Ava said, although she’d certainly heard the story before.
“It all got cleared up. She showed the officer her ID, her key card to the pool, and he left. But her son, I think, was very upset. And the other resident—”
“Who was it?” Noelle asked.
“Do you know that salt-and-pepper-haired man who’s always walking those dachshunds? Doesn’t stop to pick up their waste unless someone is watching?”
“Such a nuisance,” Helene said.
“Oh God,” said Ava again.
“Well, what kind of repercussions will he face?”
The group turned their eyes on Inéz. She had put down her glass.
“I assume that what got left out of the story is what’s obvious. That Patricia and her son are black. Am I right?”
“They’re West Indian, I believe,” said Helene.
“Jamaican,” said Brent.
“Well, this ma
n is obviously a racist. Why else would he assume they had no right to be at the pool?”
“Well, the newsletter’s late this week—” John Sutton began.
“He owes them an apology,” Inéz said.
John Sutton nodded. “He acted badly. An apology is not a bad idea.”
“It’s an absolute requirement. At the very least.”
“What a terrible welcome to the neighborhood,” Helene said, shaking her head, and Ava murmured something about the Lord and mercy, lifted another glass of sparkling wine off a passing tray.
“I wonder what it will be like for him to go to school with your girls,” Inéz said pointedly to John and Ava. “I imagine the schools here are also predominately white? I hope for his sake that the neighborhood, at least, can be a place where he feels safe.”
“Well, he was never really in any danger,” Brent said. “The police out here aren’t like the police in the city. They come to investigate, not to mow anybody down.”
Inéz pushed her eyebrows together in puzzlement, disgust.
“But you never can be too careful,” Brent went on, nervously now, and he turned to John Sutton. “Maybe you can put something in the newsletter,” he said.
After the party, they sat on Noelle’s back porch to sober up. They drank coconut water and swatted at their arms, the citronella tiki torches doing little to repel mosquitoes.
“I hope it works out for you,” Inéz said. “This life out here.”
“I think I’ll invite that woman over—Patricia. And her family. Let them know they can count on us.”
“You didn’t say a single thing during that whole conversation about the pool. That’s not like you, Nells.”
“I know. But this is all I have right now. Those are my neighbors.”
Inéz squeezed her hand. “Don’t get lost out here, love.”
“You know, I was pregnant before.”
“And you lost the baby? Christ, Nells, why didn’t you say anything?”
“At first, it was this beautiful secret, just between Nelson and me. And by the time I was ready to tell everyone, it was all over. Nelson took it in stride, said there was nothing to do but accept it and try again.”
“That man is so strange. And it’s not just thick skin either. It’s not normal.”
“He’s not as unbreakable as he seems,” Noelle said, guarding her husband, his secrets.
The first time Noelle had seen Nelson cry was toward the end of college. A girl Noelle knew from seminar had died. She and the girl had sat beside each other for months, shared notes, complained about the professor’s illegible handwriting. She had been sick, but Noelle hadn’t known. The professor made an announcement at the end of class. In her room, Noelle had sobbed, inconsolable, carrying on about the unpredictability of life, how they would all die, but they didn’t know when. Nelson had tried to comfort her. He put his arm around her, cycled through every aphorism he seemed to know about cherishing every day. When he couldn’t calm her, he grew more and more agitated, until finally he started to beat his own skull. He crumpled onto the floor and begged her to stop. There was no point in her suffering. It wouldn’t make anything better; it wouldn’t bring back her friend. She’d only derail herself. Noelle wound up rocking him, kissing him until he was still. They made love. They never talked about her friend again.
“Why would he break when he’s got you looking after him?” Inéz said. “You’re the one I worry about.”
“I’m not as blameless as I seem. I’ve been a mess. I think that’s why he took the job in Paris—to get some space.”
“He’d be a fool to stop loving you.”
Noelle shrugged. “We’ve been together a long time.”
“So?” Inéz asked, defiant. “So have we, and we’ve sustained our love.” She smiled at Noelle, leaned her head back against the rocker.
Noelle didn’t want to hurt her by saying it was different: the fuel needed to run a marriage, how exacting it was to be so close to someone, to see them with the same mixture of sympathy and scorn that you saw yourself. It didn’t even take an unkindness to feel let down by the person with whom you had vested your whole life.
“He can’t be everything to you,” Inéz said.
“I know, I know, never rely on a man.” It had been their mantra in college, even as Noelle had dated Nelson year after year. She didn’t believe it, but she knew it was what Inéz wanted to hear.
“No, no,” Inéz said, the light from the torches coloring her face. “It’s got nothing to do with that.”
Inéz slept beside her, her breath filling the bedroom with the kind of presence Noelle had been missing. Still, she couldn’t sleep. She ran a bath and brought her phone with her in case Nelson called. It was a new day in Paris.
She sank into the hot water, dropped in the rose and calendula soak she had bought to help with fertility. The dried flowers bobbed in the bath. Noelle didn’t believe they would ever work, but all the witchy remedies gave her, at least, something to do. She could drink primrose tea to soften her cervix, take fish oil and go for long walks, treat conception like a full-time job. It made her feel her odds were better. Nelson had said they could make another, but she wasn’t so sure. She’d never get pregnant if he weren’t around.
Nelson told her not to think of the miscarriage as a baby but rather a little maybe she’d been carrying around that had turned to a no. But her child had been the size of a mango when she lost him. He’d been anchored in her, by blood, a new organ her body had made. She knew that babies were conceived and died all the time when they were just the size of seeds or nuts, but that knowledge had made no difference. The little maybe had been hers, a life she was waiting on.
The phone rang and Noelle leapt for it. Finally. Nelson. She needed his voice, the sweet husk of it.
The voice that came through the phone was coarse and female. Her little sister Diane. She called every once in a while, usually on mornings she was alone on a long drive. They had kept up their small talk over the years, as if all they needed to know was that the other was fine. Noelle loved her sister, but she’d lost track of her somehow, while she was busy running from Lacey May.
“Chickadee, why are you up so late? Everything all right?”
“Mama collapsed this morning. She fell right off the front porch.”
A sick shock ran through Noelle. She remembered her mother had called earlier, and she had ignored her. If her mother was hurt badly, she’d never live it down—the prodigal daughter, now even worse than Margarita. “Is she all right?”
“She’s awake now. Bumped her head pretty hard though.”
“Well, all right. So she’s fine.”
“The problem is she fainted cause she’s sick, Noelle. They’re saying she’s got cancer.”
The word hit Noelle like a physical blow, a straight shot to the chest. “Not everybody dies from cancer,” she said.
“She’s been asking for you. She’s going on about how she knows you won’t come, even if she’s dying, cause you hate her that much.”
“Mama sure knows what to say to convince people of her way of seeing things.”
“Maybe you should come home. What are you so busy with anyway?”
“You call Margarita yet?”
“Yes. She was as indifferent as you are. Some sisters I have.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do, Diane? I’m not an oncologist.”
“Then come home for me, goddamn it. Did you ever think I shouldn’t be the only one to go through all this?”
Noelle could sense her sister seething on the line, little Diane who didn’t ask for things, who was good-natured and steadfast, the most peaceable Ventura.
“Fine, I’ll come, but I’m not staying at Mama’s.”
“You can’t stay with me—you know I’ve got a roommate. Things are tight around here.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll sleep on the couch. You and Alma can keep your rooms.”
“All right.”
&nbs
p; “I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Good. You better hurry up.”
“Come on, Diane, ease up. I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”
“I don’t want to play peacekeeper between you and Mama once you’re here. Or you and Margarita, if she ever shows up. I’ve got my own life going on. My own problems. I don’t know why I always wind up stuck in the middle.”
“Little sis, it’s only cause you’re not like the rest of us. You’re one of the good ones.”
Noelle meant the words as a kindness, but Diane answered her with fury.
“Just get down here quick, and try not to cause trouble once you arrive. You might not care about any of us now that you’ve got a family of your own, but this is for real. Mama’s got a tumor in her brain.”
4
November 1992
The Piedmont, North Carolina
Jade put up a shrine to Ray in the kitchen. It was where he would have liked it to be. She hung his picture on the wall, potted violets underneath. She set out a fat black candle that smelled like tobacco when it burned, and nailed a wooden rosary to the wall. Jade didn’t believe in God, exactly, but if there were one, she wanted him to look after Ray. And so, each morning, she lit the candle in the early dark, squatted in front of the shrine, and tried to pray. She would start off talking to God and wind up talking to Ray. His voice was the one she wanted to hear. So far, she had heard nothing, but she went on kneeling at the shrine, expectant. If he had a spirit, he would still be around, trying to reach her. All she had to do was wait.
At first, she asked for his forgiveness. It was her fault for getting him mixed up with her family—a crew of people she should have known to leave behind. She said sorry, and she cursed herself, cursed Wilson. Once, she was so loud, Gee woke up and crept into the kitchen without her noticing. She turned and found him leaning against the door, giving her a terrified look. She sent him to his room right away, told him everything was fine. She knew well that sadness was a contagion. So was rage. She couldn’t allow him to see her swallowed up by grief.