The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois

by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers

  In my stupidity, I’d refused to wear black, thinking my sister might look down from Heaven and smile at me in my pretty pink dress and pink shoes. If it hadn’t been for Coco and Keisha, I would have fallen in the red dirt and been stained, but they each held an arm. They whispered it was okay. It would be all right, as I fought their holding hands. Others began to scream: my mother, my granny, and Aunt Pauline. The noise ascended, but the women in white kept their tune.

  The light shuttered: my sight dimmed, though it was a sunny day. I heard my sister’s voice. It was Lydia, speaking to me. She was here, she told me. Don’t worry, baby sister. She’d never leave me alone.

  Whatever Gets You Over

  I didn’t stay long in Chicasetta after the burial. Only two days, before I climbed into Coco’s car with my aunt and mother and headed up the interstate.

  We didn’t say much on the drive. I was afraid that if I began talking, I’d stumble into a story about years past, when a woman and her three daughters would pile into a station wagon in the early hours of the morning. The radio turned to a station that played Aretha, or if not, at least Earth, Wind & Fire. How Lydia would be sure to point out the Peach Butt in Gaffney, right around the time I would begin to hunger for the chicken that my mother had packed in a brown paper bag.

  In the City, I called the clinic and left a message with the receptionist, who spoke to me tenderly. Everyone in the neighborhood had heard about my sister, and they were real, real sorry. Lydia had been so sweet; everybody had been hoping she’d get herself together. I tried not to cut the receptionist off. Already my heart was beating fast, and I huffed through my mouth for seconds. I told her I was taking a break for bereavement. I hoped I wasn’t leaving them in the lurch, and she told me don’t even worry. Take as much time as I needed.

  Each night, I made to-do lists of what had to be accomplished the next day. I fueled myself for future purpose. I’d take a run on my father’s funky treadmill, down in the basement. I’d clean my room, change my ripe sheets, and finally unpack my suitcase from Chicasetta—but each morning, I’d lie in bed frightened about greeting the day. I’d think about what I’d see when I unzipped my suitcase, the pink dress and pink shoes I’d worn to Lydia’s funeral. I’d pull the covers over my face, so I wouldn’t see the bed on the other side of the room. The place where my sister used to lie.

  But I couldn’t sleep. Not with Mama rustling through the house, asking my cousin Veronica, did she have her book bag? How many times had Aunt Diane told her if she put it in the big basket by the foot of the stairs, she’d always know where it was? And didn’t Veronica know she should listen to her mother sometimes?

  My only escape was when the phone rang. It would be the old man calling during the day, even before the rates went down. He wasn’t worried about running up his telephone bill. What future was he saving his money for? He was going to spend like there was no tomorrow, because actually, there wasn’t one for a man who was almost ninety.

  “Sugarfoot, you should come down for a visit. You can stay as long as you like.”

  “You don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t, Ailey. I’m feeling sorry for myself. I really miss you.”

  “Uncle Root, are you turning soft on me?”

  “I’m in my dotage. It makes me very emotional.”

  “You’re going to live longer than me.”

  “No, I’m not, child. My time is coming. That’s the cycle of life.”

  “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Permission granted.”

  “Uncle Root, the cycle of life can kiss my natural, Black ass.”

  “There’s the spirit!”

  We’d talk for a few minutes until he told me, he guessed he should stop wasting my time. I was a young person and didn’t want to spend all day talking to a senior citizen. He knew I had things to do.

  The morning I finally came down for breakfast, Mama didn’t make a big production. She handed me a cup of coffee, and asked, did I want grits? It was Aunt Diane’s late morning at the counseling center. She’d already taken my cousin to school, and her first client wasn’t until noon. She and my mother had their heads together as usual, but this time, it was their regular argument.

  My aunt believed in deep breathing to dissipate anger. That’s what she counseled her clients. She’d found that over the years, keeping one’s mind calm really helped with anxiety, but Mama had different ideas about rage. You had to allow your anger to have its way, and cuss out folks who got on your nerves. Now that she was in her fifties, she was tired of being nice. So anybody that messed with her needed to know, it was the cuss-out or the get-run-over. And that’s what my aunt should have done last Saturday, when she and Mama saw my uncle at the community flea market with that girl that was young enough to be his daughter.

  “Diane, did I not tell you these nonconfrontational strategies don’t keep a man in line? You should have cussed Lawrence out, like I told you to. And then kicked his ass right there in the flea market.”

  “Honestly, Belle, it wasn’t that upsetting. I can’t even remember her name.”

  “It was Cherise.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “You need reminding because Lawrence is disgusting. That girl looked like she had her first period last year.”

  “She was of age, Belle. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Did you see that girl’s birth certificate?”

  “Belle, he’s a free agent. We’re divorced. Lawrence can do whatever he pleases.”

  “Y’all have two kids together. Two.” Mama held up the peace sign, jiggling each finger. “That man won’t ever be free of you. Plus, you’re the best woman he’s ever had.”

  Aunt Diane laughed. “Now, I can agree with that!”

  “And you don’t act free, going out to dinner with him. Coming in all times of the night. I hope you’re using condoms with that hound dog.”

  “Belle, you’re being inappropriate in front of my niece.”

  “She’s a grown woman. She ought to know what a condom is, and if she doesn’t, we got trouble.”

  “You know, I do feel sorry for Lawrence. A middle-aged man like that, rubbing against someone so young and pretty. Just imagine him putting on a condom in front of her.”

  “Imagine if his thing couldn’t get hard in the first place.” Mama laughed. “The man is over fifty years old!”

  “Don’t I know it?” My aunt giggled, holding her stomach, and I marveled at their rhythms. They were each other’s true life mates, not like the husbands to whom they’d once pledged themselves, one dead and the other exiled.

  “Ladies, I hate to break up an important discussion, but I’ve got a busy day. I’m back at the clinic today.” I twirled in the dress I’d pulled from the back of my closet, a pastel blue that my mother had given me for Christmas. “How do I look?”

  “Fierce!” Aunt Diane snapped her fingers, a gesture she’d learned from me.

  “So nice, baby!” my mother said. “You’ve always been such a beautiful girl. I’m so proud of you.”

  As I left, I looked over my shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t follow me. No, I was safe. She and my aunt were continuing their debate. I picked up the overnight bag I’d placed at the foot of the stairs.

  At Zulu’s Fufu, I picked up my free breakfast from a waitress who gave me sad looks. I hoped she wouldn’t say something about Lydia. To distract her, I asked for more grits. Oh, and more turkey sausage, too.

  The door to the café jingled, and Mr. Harris came through.

  “Hey, Ailey!”

  “Hey there, Mr. Harris.”

  “How your mama doing?”

  “She’s good.”

  “So when do you think you might give me the apartment keys?”

  “Soon, Mr. Harris. Real soon. I just want to make sure the place is completely clean.”

  “I have a crew, Ailey. They can get all that.”

  I stepped to the door, calling, I would let him know. I�
�d call him, and it was so good to see him.

  In the living room of Lydia’s apartment, I pulled some clothes from the overnight bag. I changed my clothes and lay down on the couch, then remembered that I needed to hang up my work dress. I couldn’t get it wrinkled. That would require an explanation, when I was supposed to be volunteering at the clinic two times a week. I put in my earphones and turned on my Walkman. I had three hours before my mother expected me to return home. As I lay there Lydia’s voice came to me again.

  Lying to your mama is wrong, baby, Lydia said. You weren’t raised that way.

  “I’m going to start back volunteering soon,” I said. “So then it won’t be a lie.”

  If you say so. Whatever gets you over.

  “Leave me alone, please, Lydia.”

  I didn’t talk out loud to her, only in my head. But I did turn up the music.

  * * *

  On the days that I didn’t leave the house, I helped Mama with the housework, dusting the banister and using the special oil soap to mop the hardwood floors. I asked for the grocery list and drove to the farmers’ market. There was a stall run by a young white guy with a waist-length ponytail. My mother told me he sold the freshest greens in town.

  I thought my ruse was slick. I’d certainly fooled my mother, who smiled brightly the mornings I met her in the kitchen dressed for the clinic. She didn’t approach me with accusations, to tell me her dreams had informed her that I was a lying, pitiful excuse for a daughter. But at a rare Sunday dinner at Mama’s house, Coco cornered me in the kitchen, walking soundlessly behind me.

  “Listen, how’s everything going? I’m concerned about you.”

  I scraped my plate into the trash can. “No need for that. I’m fabulous.”

  “Ailey, no, you’re lying to Mama.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I know you’re not volunteering. The director of the clinic called me looking for you.”

  I ran a soapy cloth over a plate. “I just haven’t seen him. I guess he doesn’t come in on the same days I do.”

  She pushed my arm roughly. “Do I have ‘Boo-Boo the Fool’ stamped on me?”

  “I know you better stop putting your hands on me, unless you want a fight. I’m not scared of you.”

  In the dining room, our mother was telling a story about her brother Roscoe. How one morning their father had tried to make him get up early to work the fields, and Roscoe told him he didn’t want to smell the ass end of no mule.

  “Okay, Ailey. Okay. I’m sorry.” Coco made our father’s palms-down gesture. The nails on her small fingers were short and very clean. “It’s just . . . it’s been a month since Lydia passed. I’m just worried about you, girl. That’s all.”

  “Worry about yourself! Worry about your own conscience. I know what you and Daddy were doing. Paying Lydia’s rent. Keeping her away from us.”

  She blinked at me and screwed up her face. For once, I’d thrown her. “Ailey, is that what you really think of me? Daddy and I weren’t keeping Lydia away. We were just giving her some time to get herself together, until she could come back home. And Mr. Harris let her stay in that apartment for free.”

  “Daddy told you that?”

  “Yeah, he did. Said he’d wanted me to take care of Lydia if he ever got sick again, but she needed to go back into rehab. Get herself together. You can’t enable an addict.”

  “So you left her there? Fuck you, Coco!”

  I whispered my rage. Through the kitchen door, Mama’s story voice was loud and holding laughter. She was still talking about Roscoe, before he’d gone to the chain gang. That boy had been a caution.

  My sister’s physician’s reserve, the coldness, always seemed to fit her, but now her face was wet. “Fuck me, Ailey? No, I didn’t leave her! I was paying her utilities, even though she wouldn’t talk to me—”

  “That’s because you’re so judgmental—”

  “When have I ever judged either one of y’all? Why do you think I sent you to that clinic when I knew Lydia lived in that neighborhood? I was hoping you would bring her home! I mean, it’s not like you have a job or care about anybody but your damned self. I figured I’d give you something useful to do, but of course, you fucked that up—”

  “That is so mean and low-down—”

  “You know what else is mean and low-down? That you don’t do a goddamn thing for this family but take! Do you even know what I do for y’all? No, because you don’t ask! I’m working thirty-six-hour shifts for my residency so I can pay for Nana’s care! You think Medicaid covers everything? Shit. My girlfriend can’t even work a real job, because she’s looking after that woman full-time, and who do you think paid for Lydia’s funeral? I don’t have a cent left in savings! And if it wasn’t for Mr. Harris giving me the money to ship the body, we couldn’t have even buried her down home! He wanted to pay for the funeral, too, but I was too embarrassed—”

  “—you said you took up a collection—”

  “—what else did you want me to do, Ailey? Ask you for six thousand dollars, plus shipping costs, and you don’t even have a job?”

  When I said nothing, she snorted.

  “See? This is what I mean. You just took it for granted that the money would be there. And you know why? Because you’re selfish—”

  “That’s not true! I was trying to bring Lydia home. I was giving it some time. Things were hard for her.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “No, Coco. Really hard. Like, Gandee hurt her. He molested her, like he did me.”

  I watched her face.

  “You think that motherfucker didn’t mess with me, too? Well, he did.”

  “Oh God, Coco.”

  “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me! I’m fine! And you don’t see me using Gandee as an excuse to sleep late and be lazy and eat up somebody else’s groceries. And before you feel the need to trot around telling folks, you keep this shit to yourself. How you think it would make Mama feel? What’s she supposed to do, go to Gandee’s grave and cuss out his headstone?”

  “I didn’t say I would tell. I’m just telling you.”

  “Okay, so you did. Now get on with your life. Just try to make something of yourself, like I did. Not that anybody cares about me. You and Lydia, that’s it. That’s all Mama has ever paid attention to.”

  She picked up a plate from the counter, dumping bones and bits of greens into the scrap bowl. I walked quickly out of the kitchen, almost jogging. At the dining table, I filled my plate a second time. When I finished, I wanted banana pudding.

  I kept eating another plate and bowl, one after the other, until I couldn’t hold anything else inside. In the bathroom, I vomited in the toilet bowl. When the first wave came, I pissed through my underwear. After I wiped down the floor of the bathroom, I sprayed some cleaner, leaned back from the fumes, and wiped again. I stripped off my clothes and underwear and looked in the mirror. My cheeks were red underneath the brown, my eyes puffed with tears. I started running the shower.

  * * *

  The next morning, I poked my head in the kitchen to tell my mother and aunt I was headed to work. No rest for the weary, and my mother smiled. She told me she was proud of her baby.

  At Zulu’s Fufu, I ordered my food. I just wanted to hurry back to Lydia’s apartment. Eat my food quick, but Mr. Harris called my name from a booth in the back.

  I gave him a neutral wave and he walked up to me.

  “Ailey! What you know good, girl?”

  “Hey, Mr. Harris.”

  He leaned in for a side hug. “And how your mama doing?”

  “She’s keeping, Mr. Harris.”

  “Come on back when you get your food. Sit with me a spell.”

  The waitress called my number and I went up to collect my takeaways. I checked the path to the door, but knew there was no escape. I couldn’t take a man’s free food and dash.

  I sat down in the booth, sighing. “Well, Mr. Harris, I should go soon—”

>   “And so, how are you doing?”

  “Me? I’m doing great!” I scrunched up my mouth in what I hoped was a perky manner. I flicked a glance over at his food. There was a pool of melted margarine in the middle of his cheese grits. Mr. Harris made humming noises in between bites. I heard his foot tapping under the table, like a baby tasting his first solid food.

  “This is so delicious, Ailey. You should eat.”

  “I just came to pick up something.”

  I patted the top of my plastic bag. I hoped he caught my drift, but Mr. Harris began to talk about the past, when my father and he had worked for the movement. My mother was young then, and so beautiful. And although she was a new mother, she had volunteered in the early days, before the center had become a clinic. Boy, she sure could cook! Mr. Harris never tasted food so good before or since. He’d looked for a woman like that his whole life, but never could find one. God broke the mold when He made Belle Garfield. That was a good woman, right there.

  “Your father was my brother, Ailey. And I love you and your sisters like you were my nieces.”

  “And we appreciate you, too, Mr. Harris.” I tried not to sound impatient.

  “You don’t understand. Your father brought your sister to me when things got bad. I was supposed to look out for her, but I failed my brother, Ailey. I failed your mama, too, and she doesn’t even know it.”

  He put his fork down. Turned his head briefly, recomposing.

  “Mr. Harris, it’s all right. You did your best.”

  “No, it’s not. But I’m not going to fail your parents again. Ailey, it’s been months now, and you haven’t packed up that apartment. I’m giving you another week, and then, I’m changing the locks—”

  “But Mr. Harris—”

  “And it’s not about the rent, either. I don’t need that money. I got plenty, but Ailey, this neighborhood is not a good place for you. And I don’t want to see you leave like your sister. Lydia was a sweet girl. A good girl. She was just caught in a bad situation.” He reached into his back pocket, lifting his hips. When he put the money in my hand, I saw the top of Benjamin Franklin’s head peeking out. I tried to give it back, but he pushed my hand away. “Go on, now. You take that. And if you ever need anything else, anything at all, you got my number. And the same goes for your mama. You tell Belle I’m always here.”