The first time, she took the day off to mourn President Kennedy’s death. The second time, five years later when the other Kennedy boy was assassinated. That same year, she left work early when Dr. King was assassinated. Maybe King died before the Kennedy boy. So long ago. Memory fools. Kennedy and King. Unformed shapes and sounds in grainy black and white surround the words. Sounds and images faint and indistinct. Did I imagine them? More touch than sight or sound. What holds one funeral from the other? Makes one name, one man, one brother distinct from the other?
I can’t tell you how many times I seen that hotel.
Flitting and fitful points of light flickered on the television screen.
That’s right. Mrs. Shipco gulped down the rising in her throat. You used to live in Memphis.
Used to pass by there almost every day.
After everything else that’s happened, now this.
Sheila understood. Mrs. Shipco would get a certain look when she knew Dr. King was to appear on TV. A faint smile of anticipation would soften her face.
Sheila went home and soaked her feet in Epsom salts. Watched black and gray images burn down the city. She might have joined them but her feet hurt too bad.
She took off for Sam’s funeral, Big Judy’s funeral, and Koot’s funeral. She would take a few days off for Lula Mae’s funeral.
These past few months, she had missed more days than in all the previous years, flying down to West Memphis—outside the window, the shadow of the moving plane toy-small against the white clouds—twice a month to tend to Lula Mae on her white deathbed. Lula Mae’s toenails curved out from under the white sheets, long yellow bird claws. Sheila would remove the sheets. Look right through Lula Mae’s white skin, water. The bones delicate underneath, sprung with tension, the splinters of a collapsed bridge. And further down, the lumps of cancer like river stones. Sheets missing, Lula Mae would awaken. Take one look at Sheila and color would climb high in her bosom, neck, and face.
Sheila would pull back the curtains and raise Lula Mae’s face to the light. Lula Mae would chew the pain and talk until she could talk no longer. Sheila would replace the white sheets. Search for the long scar across Lula Mae’s stomach, the scar she and Gracie—when they were girls—would finger as Lula Mae deep-breathed sleep. The scar had disappeared. Dissolved in memory. The clear white belly mirrored Sheila’s face.
WHEN SHEILA WAS PREGNANT, she hauled the freight of her belly to work. Unimpeded by the weight, she worked while her stomach domed under her blouse. Washing, kneeling, scrubbing. Got rounder each day, so round she thought she would bounce away. Her energy did not subside during labor. Rapid breathing reflected her rushing mind. So much to do with and for a new baby. Sweat spread a blanket of wet weight over her. Her mind and chest slowed. She breathed heavy in the darkness, breath twisting up like smoke. She climbed the smoke up into a white room with a silver sun. Saw the forceps move in position. Pull. Pull. Something long emerged, a brown banana. The baby’s head. Don’t worry, ma’m. We can shape the head. It’s soft like clay. Kids can give you such a scare. She took a day to rest, then gathered the baby up in the pink blanket and hurried out of the hospital. She had never had so much energy in all her life. She could leave Porsha, her firstborn, in the cradle for hardly a minute. The baby lay on its back, the legs and arms pumping outward like a turtle. She took it high and awkward in her arms. It opened its eyes, whimpering. She rocked it. She carried it everywhere in a back sling. Carried it to work, not because she could not find or afford a babysitter, but because the magic had not burned away.
Sheila would awaken—having dozed off in the middle of mopping, dusting, polishing the piano, vacuuming the floors, cleaning the windows, folding the laundry—and find the baby lying in one of the Shipcos’ old cradles, Mrs. Shipco leaning on the cradle’s high rail, and trying to tease out laughs with a rattle.
IVORY BEACH, SHEILA, and Gracie drew water from Daddy Larry’s well—drawing water was women’s work—washed laundry and carried the baskets to town, not on the crowns of their heads as the old folks liked to do, but sack-heavy in front of them. Gracie always fell behind the other two. You, Gracie, Ivory Beach said. I’m older than you and if I can carry mine, then—She meant to say, My basket is heavier cause it’s stuffed full of herbs—beneath the sun-clean sheets—for the white folks in town. Come on here, she said. Ivory Beach didn’t like Gracie. Especially when the sun made Gracie’s birth-black skin three shades blacker, like it did the red summer day Lula Mae went away, watermelon red cause it is the scent of watermelon that always reminds you of that day. Blackbirds should be shot and eaten, she liked to say. Sheila could carry with ease. Labor was buried deep in her nerves and muscles. The three of them white-scrubbed the laundry and carried it to town over the hot sand road, the road that was like a river of heat so you walked in the grass.
Beulah got Sheila and Gracie a job, their first, in Fulton. Mr. Harrison would drive twenty miles to Houston to pick them up. Drive twenty miles to take them home. Many a Sunday, Beulah, Sheila, Gracie, and R.L. would sup with the Harrisons. Yall welcome here, Mr. Harrison said, from now to Moses. Beulah, Sheila, and Gracie divided up their work. When Sheila and Gracie rested, Beulah would nap in the same bed with the Harrison children. Why, Beulah, you the prettiest nigga I ever seen. The kids would stroke Beulah’s long hair. White men in the town tipped their hats when they saw Beulah. How you today, Miss Beulah? Mr. Harrison owned Fulton. Yall need anything, he said, yall ask. He was always good for an extra five dollars here or there. Mrs. Harrison gave Beulah, Sheila, and Gracie blouses, skirts, and dresses. Shirts, suits, and pants for R.L. Why, R.L., you got the prettiest eyes I ever seen on a nigga. The Harrison boys would take R.L. to the picture show and they would all sit in the white section, rowdy and loud. And when he got older, they took him drinking. Sometimes bring Sam and Dave along. Mr. Harrison found them good jobs at the sawmill.
Beulah moved to Memphis. Once she’d saved enough money, she sent for Sheila, Gracie, and R.L. Beulah met them at the same smoking train station where a few years before they had waved Lula Mae off to New Mexico. Beulah got Sheila and Gracie day work. Each morning, Beulah would send Lula Mae a letter by special mail: Come back to your children. Lula Mae came back. Beulah left for the city.
Two years later, Beulah sent for Sheila. Sheila would always remember the world outside the train window. A kaleidoscope of sounds and color, loose fragments of houses, trees held together with dirty clotheslines and patches of sun-drying laundry. Day rounding into night, then the city, a tapestry of steel and light. Here was where she would live and work, live and work.
The following Monday morning, Beulah took her to meet the Shipcos.
Now remember about the daughter, Beulah said.
Lynn.
Yes, Lynn. Young but nasty. No home training. Take off her panties and let them drop anywhere. The kitchen table. The piano stool. In front of the fireplace. It don’t matter. Nasty. They gave her a chair and with all the usual hospitality offered her a refreshment.
As you know, Miss Dear works for us on Saturday. We wanted her to work the full week, but she is unable to. She is a wonderful woman. She said you were the next-best thing.
Sheila smiled. Beulah taught me everything I know.
Miss Dear probably explained that—
Oh, yes. Beulah told me.
And I will need help preparing Thanksgiving dinner.
Fine.
Are you available Christmas Eve?
Yes.
Philip’s family flies into town.
Napkins folded into crane shapes. Bread loaves like airplane hangars. Sneak a bottle or two of Mogen David into your purse. Your family will drink them—and Crown Royal—on Christmas.
I see.
The Shipcos’ faces told Sheila that they had satisfied their hunger, thirst, and curiosity. Sheila changed clothes and went to work.
SHE PLACED THE HOT IRON on top of the stove to cool. She set about folding the clothes into neat squares.
She put the laundry basket into the utility closet. The clothes were clean and neat and permanent.
This was what life had offered and she had accepted. She would hold other jobs briefly, even attend a free, city-sponsored nursing program. But day work was permanent, beyond the whims of bosses and supervisors. Safe from politicians and fluctuations of the economy.
Yes, she had come to work today. What had happened this witnessing morning was nothing to miss work over. City life. I seen worse. A poor excuse to miss work. There’s no water wasted at this well.
You should retire, Porsha said. Ask her for a pension.
I don’t have to ask her. She’ll give me one without my asking.
Well, retire then.
And do what?
Porsha thought for a moment. Spend time with your husband.
Often, she found comfort in the knowledge that Lucifer worked equally hard. They sweated the same sweat. That’s one reason why it was hard knowing that Lucifer had gone to meet John this morning and missed work. Lucifer had put John before his job.
His actions could not change the simple fact, she would forgive Lucifer, as she had forgiven all else, safe in the knowledge that John would be gone with the train’s whistle, but Lucifer would remain, waiting for her in a form she could touch and love.
14
PORSHA HUGGED HERSELF. Wards Tower—the tallest building in the city—was cold after the outside heat. The metal exterior hid the green insides. Seeding grass edged with blues and lavenders. Red and yellow rose sprouted into petaled life. Peach and pomegranate limbs reached out to touch her. Bark of pomegranate enfolded bark of peach. Scentless green. Real or artificial? These plants and trees had no plastic shine. She inspected them closely, searching for brown edges, signs of decay. Detected a brown spot, here and there. Real to the touch but perfect, too perfect. If it hadn’t been for the walls, you might believe you were strolling through Circle Park. Walls spoke geometrical patterns, petroglyphic figures inlaid with shards of glass, broken tile, and what looked like shining bits of bone and teeth.
She entered the elevator. Selected her floor. The doors hissed closed. She rode the elevator alone. Heard nothing and felt nothing. Came reeling out the elevator under the influence of speed, fifty flights in half the seconds. Brightness blinded her for a moment. One wall of the hall was windows. Outside the windows, sky spread a red song. Sunlight fell in whispers. Booming prisms of sun and shadow below. Birds veered, the moving shadows of their outstretched wings black against the blue water of Tar Lake. The lake rolled like a painted sea. Water echoed in silent, solitary swells. Her raised eye caught a sailboat on water, red sail like a waving handkerchief. She continued down the sun-shafted hall.
The door she needed was the shiniest black, lacquered like a Chinese screen. Eyebrow-pencil rivers. Thin trees with cat-o’-nine branches. Wing-eyed men battling dog-sized dragons. An engraved brass plate: THE RAYMOND OWL STUDIO PHOTOGRAPHY. A tension rode her back. She always felt nervous on an assignment. To relax, she would slide her face behind an imaginary white veil. But why was she nervous now? She and Owl had worked together for years, well over a decade, and they met every week. He always had work for her, even when business was slow. And while the average photographer eyed her through his open fly, Owl was professional, strictly business. Her one complaint: he always misspelled her name on the checks he wrote— Porsche, like the car. She had done some of her best work with him. Like the beach shot. Her body stretched across the horizon with the ocean behind it (Tar Lake, actually). Her body duplicated in numerous poses to cover an entire beach. The best. He had even taken the shots in her first portfolio, fifty soft-focus stills of her breasts, hips, legs, and rear end. She and Owl had a history. But that history didn’t count for much at times like this. She always needed a moment to calm herself before she entered his studio.
The door opened to her shaking touch. The open door magnified the small insides. Lights, reflectors, screens, tripods, backdrops, and props positioned with ritual precision. Each detail bore Owl’s touch. He rarely worked with an assistant. He even did his own hair and makeup.
Porsha?
She recognized Owl’s voice. Yes. It’s me.
Make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in a moment.
She entered. She saw herself repeated over and over. Everything is one, the New Cotton Rivers said, born of the perfection of a unique light, and multiple things are multiple only by virtue of the multiplication of light itself. The office ran four rows of mirrored walls. She checked her figure. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the finest of them all? She thanked God for her infinite perfection.
Porsha.
In the deep shade, at the farthest end of the studio, a figure ran backwards and forwards. Was it beast or human? She could not tell. The figure rolled through the reflected shadows. Broke into light. Owl’s bald head bulb-gleamed. His orange jumpsuit forced bright color into her eyes. He always wore an orange jumpsuit. Perhaps a carryover from the days when he had worked as the coroner’s photographer.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the jar lid that he used for an ashtray. (He knew she couldn’t stand the smoke.) He was a short man, the shortest she had ever seen. He might have made a successful paparazzo, slip his tiny camera through a guarded peephole, this man small enough to slide under a door, camera and all. He came forward with his hand extended, his eyes full of light and fire.
She took his warm hand into her own. He pulled her forward a step or two. Bowed slightly from the hips. She lined up her cheek with his lips. He kissed her.
How are you? Owl was so close that he almost put his eyes in her mouth.
No complaints. She eased back a step or two, trying not to be noticeable. Jus fine.
Sorry to keep you waiting. I had problems adjusting a lens.
Don’t be silly. You weren’t long.
Owl gave her a moment of concentrated attention. That’s what I like about you. His knowing expression shook her. Not only are you professional, but you’re kind, too.
Every word pulled the knot in her belly tighter. Thanks. How’s everything with you?
You know, chicken today. Feathers tomorrow.
She forced a laugh.
Have some breakfast? He motioned to a small card table behind him laden with toasted bagels and rolls, steaming coffee and tea, and colorful juices.
No, thank you. I already ate.
Some spirits?
No, thanks. Kinda early for me.
Each to his own. He fixed himself a drink.
Damn.
What’s wrong?
I forgot my briefcase. Deathrow had snared all her attention. Made her forget her leather briefcase that harbored the tools of her trade: dazzy dukes, biker shorts, a thong bikini, a miniskirt, a teddy, and assorted garter belts and stockings.
Don’t worry about it. I need you to model a new line. You’ll find the outfits in the dressing room. Start with whatever you like.
THE BLACK TRANSPARENCY AND GLOW OF HER SKIN caught the candlelight. The candlelight threw black shadows that repeated the profile of her face, her throat, her arms.
Okay, give me something soft.
She curled into the most delicate gesture, a root searching for moisture, circling out.
Okay. Now walk toward me.
She undulated rather than walked.
Butter. Pure butter.
She drifted in a well-tight place. Broke the surface. Trawled the wet floor. Spun. The concentric dartings of fish through clear spaces of water.
Ah huh. Ah huh. Yes. Owl spoke slowly and carefully as though every word was costing him money. I like that.
She shimmied. Small white shells rattled on her ankles.
LIGHT STUNNED AWAY COLOR. Two white tunnels trapped her vision. To overcome their length, she had to look straight ahead. Her eyes rolled in dry sockets. She crawled through the tunnels on all fours beneath bone-blackening heat.
That’s it.
Her spine curved around air. She stret
ched the elastic wealth of her body. Her hands and feet curled into wheels.
The eye watched. Large, like black velvet, with a flashing diamond in its center. The outside world disappeared whenever it blinked.
Good.
The shutter recognized. Ignored.
Okay, now, pick up the jacks.
She did. She rattled them in the well of her fist. Tossed them. A song spilled out of her.
A dollar to school.
A dollar to church.
What? Owl said.
Nothing. A song. Sweat raced down her body, a rivulet of snakes. She heard the steel eye snap, butter beans popping into a steel pan.
HER BODY ILLUMINATED in the steady, biting light of lamps, she released the full army of her skin.
The eye ran for cover.
Wonderful. I don’t know how you do it.
Easy. She had slipped behind the mirror inside her head. She was looking at herself through his eyes. Her whole body spoke of pleasure.
Yes. That’s it.
Sweat sheen gleamed on her. It moved when she moved. She knew what he liked. He didn’t spray his models with water. Preferred natural sweat. It caught the light truthfully. I see a shot, I can tell right away if it’s water or sweat.
More.
He spoke in a pecking way, picking up corn, feed.
She fluttered in fowl flight.
Yes.
Her body clarified. Bled light.
Pig meat. Real pig meat.
She threw her head back.
I like that. Keep it. More. Uh huh.
Her body caught the velocity of the camera’s desire. She pranced out of herself, blowing about. The clicking lens and clucking tongue invited her outside.
Good, Lord!
She galloped fully now. Pranced back to the center. Settled down to a trot.
That’s it.
She bowed her head. Her body drifted toward rest. She watered at the well. She steadied herself, like someone recovering from a fainting spell.
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