Mr. Harris picked up his fork and dug back in. He had a blob of grits on his chin, and it moved up and down as he chewed. I sat back and thought of the cold food I didn’t want to eat anymore.
When I walked over to Lydia’s apartment, I don’t believe I wanted to die. I only was tired of not sleeping, lying in the dark cuddled against the old childhood comforter that no longer fit. I just wanted to close my eyes and have it count.
But I did take the switchblade Mama had given me out of my pocketbook. She’d wanted me to have it when I started volunteering at the clinic. Just in case, she’d said. Uncle Root had given it to her long ago, back when she was in college. I lined the tub with towels I’d found in Lydia’s corner armoire and took two codeines saved from the last prescription my father had written me for my period. I pulled the bedspread off my sister’s bed and dragged it to the living room. When the high kicked in, that would be my signal to head to the bathroom. To start.
On the TV, a daytime talk show. There was a debate between Ms. Talk Show Host and Today’s Guest, one of those paramilitary types who wore a jacket with epaulets on each shoulder. He insisted that we were under siege from illegal outsiders. If deported, they would return to the U.S.A., so the government should capture them. Relocate them to less populated areas of the country. That way, the jobs they were stealing, picking lettuce and tomatoes and other sandwich fixings, would be freed up for real Americans.
Ms. Host had on the red silk-linen suit I’d seen on sale at Worthie’s. Or, it looked exactly like it, marked down from fifteen hundred dollars to two hundred ninety-nine. Had Ms. Host bought her suit off the rack? Wealthy as she was, did she shop for sales?
“The American government has planned this sort of endeavor before, but they tabled that proposition,” Today’s Guest said. “Now it’s time to reconsider.”
Ms. Host was silent, raising her eyebrows in her customary I’m listening expression.
Today’s Guest took out a laser pointer, aiming the red dot at the large map that appeared in the space behind the couch. The dot settled on what seemed to be Montana.
“This area up here isn’t that heavily populated. Big-sky country and quite beautiful. With a bit of maneuvering, this could be an enclosed living area for those groups I’m talking about. Of course, there’d have to be peacekeeping forces on-site.”
In the audience, people murmured as Today’s Guest sat onstage, wearing a beatific smile. Before the break, Ms. Host reminded everyone that tomorrow’s show featured chefs from three-star Michelin restaurants. One would be cooking seafood crepes. Ms. Host had recently returned from the Caribbean, where she’d bought an entire island, and let her tell you, the ocean was so blue and the seafood had been fresher than fresh!
The screen went to a commercial for laundry detergent. Another for disposable diapers starring a baby so adorable, my womb hurt looking at her crawling across a wood floor. The woman hired to play her mother urged her on.
“And we’re back!” Ms. Host said. “Before the break, Today’s Guest explained his plan to relocate all undocumented immigrants to Montana.”
There were thirteen minutes left, minus commercials. Ms. Host went in for the kill.
“I believe your so-called relocation plan is a redo of the Trail of Tears, which didn’t work too well for the Native Americans, now did it? And President Lincoln’s initial idea for shipping all the slaves back to Africa was scrapped as well. Don’t you understand this is a ridiculous proposal?” The noise coming from Ms. Host could be a laugh. She tussled it into subjugation, but the audience was her chuckling proxy. As ever, they were on her side.
Today’s Guest looked at Ms. Host severely.
“No, I don’t. This is an excellent plan. I would think you of all people could see its merits. I can explain, if you keep an open mind.”
By the time the credits rolled, I was whirling from codeine: it took a few attempts before I could rise from the couch. In the bathroom, I stripped down to my underwear and sat in the empty bathtub. I opened the straight razor, but then I dozed off.
When I awoke, I was standing in the creek, down in Chicasetta, and the long-haired lady sat on the bank, my friend from my bed-wetting days. She spoke, but I couldn’t understand her, until Lydia appeared beside her.
“She says, ‘My, you’ve grown, my daughter.’”
“Is that you, Lydia?” I asked. “Or is the codeine just that good?”
“Yes, baby sister, it’s me. I’m here.”
I hurried out of the water toward her. We embraced, and she touched my face. Don’t cry, she said. Sit with her a spell, and I settled on the creek bank, between my sister and the long-haired lady. The plantation house was in the distance, tall and ghostly and unburned.
A basket appeared in the creek and floated up to the bank. It was filled with corn. The long-haired lady passed us the ears. She began to shuck, and my sister and I mirrored her, our fingers making a trance as we filled the basket.
There were catfish swimming in the water, fat, bold with switching tails. The long-haired lady walked into the water and began to throw the creatures upon the bank.
“I’m so hungry,” I said. “When can we eat?”
“Don’t you remember?” Lydia asked. “We have to clean those catfish first. Do you have a knife?”
I showed her the switchblade.
“I can let you borrow it,” I said. “But I’ll need it for later.”
“No, Ailey. Once I take the knife, you can’t have it back. Are you sure you want to give it to me?”
I was craving fish, fried and crispy. I wanted to swallow until I split open. I handed Lydia the switchblade, and she passed it to the long-haired lady, and then my sister told me wake up. Open my eyes and step out of the tub. Come home.
I Need My Own Car
That June morning, Mama and I sat on the corduroy couch in the basement. She was preparing for our annual trip to Chicasetta and gossiping about our family. She’d made her two piles of laundry, one for clean and one for dirty. One the other side of the basement, the washing machine was humming.
“Mama, I’m taking my own car to Chicasetta.”
“What kind of sense is that? Two folks driving separately to the same place? That’s just a waste of gas money.”
“I have some emergency funds. And Uncle Root told me I could stay with him. He needs somebody to drive him.”
“You’re only going to be there two months. I can take him if he needs to go somewhere.”
“What if you’re gone visiting?”
She looked at me. Her eyes narrowed. “Ailey Pearl, what is this about?”
That’s when I let her know, I was moving down south with Uncle Root. He’d already invited me, and I’d already said yes. And before she brought it up, I’d quit my volunteer job at the clinic and the old man had sent me the money to get my car serviced.
Without sniffing, Mama threw a shirt in the clean pile. Then she stomped up the basement stairs. For the rest of the week, she barely spoke to me. She placed my breakfast plate on the kitchen table and took her oatmeal and coffee to the dining room, where my aunt and cousin would join her. Saying, I’m sorry, please excuse me, when she encountered me on the stairs. She didn’t go on her morning walks. Instead of the tracksuits, she wore a series of clean housedresses and slippers. She took the curlers out of her hair but didn’t comb the rows.
Her usual allies stayed out of it. Aunt Diane wore a disappointed expression but said nothing, and if my sister detected a skirmish, she didn’t show it when she stopped by the house. Since our argument, Coco and I had only given each other the barest of greetings. Sometimes less than that: we only raised our eyebrows at each other. But the day before I was due to leave, she cornered me again.
“Hey, girl,” she said.
I threw the sponge in the kitchen sink, spraying water. “Here we go—”
“No, wait! I don’t want any trouble. I just wondered if I could take you out for coffee tomorrow morning?”
“I can drink coffee here, Coco.”
“I know, but I’m buying. Please?”
* * *
The place where I met my sister was only a few blocks away from Nana’s house. It was a new establishment, and semi-fancy. Their version of breakfast consisted of muffins of all kinds. It was the kind of place that Aunt Diane would have loved.
My sister and I sat there with our giant blueberry muffins and cups of overpriced coffee. Coco brought up the weather. It was hotter than usual. The electric bill at Nana’s would be sky-high at the end of the month.
“Look,” I said. “I’m headed out early tomorrow morning and I still need to pack. Say what you need to say, so I can go.”
“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“Hell yeah, I am.” I took a bite of my huge muffin. It was free and delicious, so this wouldn’t be a total loss.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to talk that way to you. I just snapped when you said what you did about Lydia. And I’m always going to be hurt over what Gandee did. I tell Melissa that all the time.”
“You told her about him?”
“She’s my lady. I wasn’t going to keep it from her. She had to know, sometimes, I’m gone flip out. Other shit, too. And I went into therapy.”
“I still don’t know how you stand living with Nana. I can’t even go to Sunday dinner at her house.”
“I guess being a doctor helps. You get used to putting things into boxes. I look at Nana like a patient. Her long-term memory is shot, but sometimes, yeah, I do want to cuss her out.”
I laughed. “You did a pretty good job of that with me. I deserved it, though.”
“No, you didn’t. I was taking stuff out on you, like I’m really broken up about Lydia. Melissa was so mad at me when I told her. She said, we should be coming together, not cussing at each other.”
“I knew I liked her.”
Coco smiled. “She’ll do.”
My sister wasn’t a big talker, so I thought that was it. I was reaching for my pocketbook when she told me, wait a minute. Let’s stay awhile longer.
“Ailey, I’m so sorry about back in the day. When we were little, I mean. How I hit you when you told me what Gandee did.”
“You were just a little girl, Coco.”
“I know, but I should’ve been taking better care of you. I don’t know why I believed him when he said I was the only one.”
“It wasn’t up to you to take care of me. Our parents should have done that—”
“—they didn’t know, Ailey—”
“—I know they didn’t. I know that. But still, they were the adults in charge. You act like you were grown back then, but you’re only four years older than me.”
“My therapist said the same thing. And I was getting up the nerve to tell Mama what Gandee did, but then Daddy died. And then Lydia died, too. I just don’t want Mama to hurt anymore.”
“I know. I feel the same way. But at least you took back something. You went your own way. I feel like my whole life I’ve been watching this family from the outside. Just trying to stay out of trouble, but I never knew what I wanted. I mean, besides being a good girl. I just didn’t want to be bad. I just didn’t want to feel dirty.”
“Who cares if you’re a good girl, Ailey? Or nice or moral or whatever? I know I don’t. If there’s anything I learned from what happened to Lydia, it’s that you never know the hour or the day.”
“You sound like Miss Rose.”
“She’s right.”
“You don’t understand, Coco. You’re the perfect one. You’ve always been that way.”
“Ailey, I’m a dyke! I sleep with women!” She leaned over the table. Lowered her voice and chuckled. “Let me stop being so loud before these white folks call the police. But yeah, I hid that shit for years, thinking about, what is Mama gone say if she finds out I’m a lesbian? I knew Daddy wouldn’t care, but you know how religious she is. So I was scared of my personal life. Even scared of the dark. You know that until about a year ago, I couldn’t even sleep with the lights off? I could cut somebody’s chest wide open, hold their heart in my hand, and not even tremble. But I couldn’t lie in my own bed and sleep in the dark. Does that shit sound perfect to you?”
“I guess not.”
“But I just had to say, fuck it. I gave Gandee the first part of my life. I’m not gone give him the rest.”
Coco inched her hand toward the middle of the table. Then some more, until she covered my fingers. We didn’t say anything for a while, until I told her, all right, now, let’s not get mushy. Too late, she said. She smiled and held my hand some more.
* * *
The next morning, the ritual started off familiarly. I woke earlier than the rest of the house. But unlike times past, my mother had not beat me to the kitchen. The kitchen was dark and there was no breakfast on the table, no pot full of fresh-brewed coffee in the machine. I took my time fitting my bags into the trunk of the car, but she did not meet me outside, clutching her housecoat. I was on my own as I drove off.
On the interstate, I was afraid, though I had the credit card Uncle Root had ordered in my name, with a line of five hundred dollars. A calling card, too, with fifty dollars’ worth of minutes. I’d memorized the journey south, but it was dark, and before the dawn cracked, I put in a CD and sang along with Chaka Khan. She assured me that I was a woman. Anything I wanted to do, I could.
I stopped for a long lunch, ordering twice as much food since I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I drank a pot of coffee. Hours later, in Gaffney, I heard my dead sister’s voice.
“It’s the Peach Butt!” Lydia said.
There was no one in the car but us, so I spoke to her out loud: “I know! We’re almost to the Georgia state line.”
“Don’t forget to stop for a watermelon for Miss Rose. And be sure to thump it on the side. You know she can’t stand bad fruit.”
When I pulled into my granny’s driveway, I tooted the horn. Then I struggled out of the car with the watermelon. Miss Rose and Uncle Root stood and waved. The old man didn’t hop down, but his step was still spry, and he held my granny’s hand as she huffed down the steps.
My mother remained on the porch in the rocking chair: somehow, she had beaten me to Chicasetta. At dinner, she didn’t say much, and when her brother stopped by, he gave me only a quick hug, before telling me, he’d heard I wasn’t working.
“Ailey, you can’t be living up on people,” Uncle Norman said. “If you ain’t got no husband and no children, you need to be working. Post office always hiring. That’s a good job, too. Benefits and everything. But you need to go to med school. That’s what you need. It’s some good credit in doctoring.”
Mama nodded along, unbothered that she was joining with her brother to shame me. She was my mother. She was supposed to be on my side, but the way her head bobbed, she seemed to have forgotten that.
The old man balled his paper napkin and placed it on the table. He grunted as he rose. His joints were so angry, he told us. He could feel his age today.
“Sugarfoot, can you walk me to my pecan tree? It’s still light, but I might need a young shoulder to rest on. I don’t want to trip on anything.”
Uncle Root walked slowly through the house, but when we closed the screen door and walked down the porch steps, he strode ahead. Stop dawdling, he called. I was too young to be so slow. At the pecan tree, he told his story, which had changed. This time, Jinx Franklin had punched him first, before Uncle Root pushed him to the ground.
The next morning, my mother called the old man’s house, and I told her he and I had plans. I’d call her later in the week, but the next morning, she called again. I told her I didn’t have time to see her. I stopped answering the old man’s phone when it rang, and when he called my name, saying my mother was on the phone, I’d tell him I was reading.
I never did call her back, though I’d see her in church. After service, I’d hug my granny and then walk to the other side of the fellowship hall to avo
id Mama. She’d look over at me, her face painted with an aggrieved expression, as if I’d done something awful. I’d breezily wave at her, and she’d turn her back.
In July, I drove the old man out to the farm and dropped him off at the family reunion, though he asked me to reconsider. Didn’t I want to see anybody? My mother had been asking about me, and David and Carla were coming. Surely, I wanted to sit with the young folks a spell.
“No, I’m good,” I said.
“Ailey, this thing between you and Belle has got to stop. The both of you are still grieving. You need to cling to each other, instead of fighting.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s the one spreading my business around the family. Telling Uncle Norman I’m some kind of derelict. I’m tired of her bad-mouthing me.”
“She’s just worried about you, Ailey. You know, she’s lost one daughter. Can’t you understand her being a little overprotective?”
“More like over bossy. She doesn’t need to worry about me! I’m twenty-four years old! I’m grown.”
Uncle Root sighed. “All right. I’ll call you when I’m ready to go. Do you want me to pack you a plate?”
“Yes, and can you put me some ribs in there? Like, five? Oh! And some sweet potato pie and pound cake? And some greens? And some macaroni and cheese.”
“You could pack your own plate if you came to the party.”
“No, I’m not even that hungry.”
All summer, I avoided my mother, but in August, she didn’t call the house before she stopped by. The old man called up the stairs. There was somebody to see me, and there was Mama, in her T-shirt and jeans, looking almost like a girl. She’d made a pie. Did we want a piece? and Uncle Root said, hot dog, he was never going to turn down pie. She stayed a long time, until the sun went down. Then the old man said he believed he’d go upstairs and do some reading.
Mama and I stood there awkwardly, until I said, did she want to go sit outside? I picked up two church fans from the foyer table, and we sat on the glider, waving at mosquitoes. She told me that she had gotten reconciled. Every child needed to be independent, and she knew that the old man and I were thick. He needed somebody and so did I. We could keep each other out of trouble.
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 54