“I’m leaving tomorrow, baby,” she said.
“You can stay a little longer,” I said. “You can even stay, like, forever. You know you’re surely welcome.”
“No, I can’t leave Coco by herself.”
“She’s got Melissa.”
“You know Melissa’s people are in Detroit. So the both of them need me. And maybe I can convince one of them to have a baby.”
I laughed. “How didn’t I see this coming!”
“Somebody gone have me some grandkids! Now, y’all need to decide who gone do it.”
Mama nudged me, and I giggled.
“But can I call you sometimes, Ailey? I mean, I know you don’t want to be bothered and everything.”
“Aw, Mama, don’t say that! You know I always want to hear from you.”
* * *
When the summer ended, the days crawled, even slower than when I was a child. I had no sisters to keep me company. My former playmates were grown and had mates. Even the town seemed smaller, the sides of the streets pushed together.
There was only so much visiting that one could do. The walks over to Miss Cordelia’s house. The drives out to the country to see my granny. Church on Sunday at Red Mound. After I made our simple dinner of baked chicken or warmed-up leftovers from Miss Rose’s big Sunday spread, the old man and I would talk quietly in the evenings, discussing the news or the books that we were reading. There was a peace that I didn’t know that I’d craved.
On odd Saturdays, I drove with the old man to Atlanta and met up with David. Carla and he were married now, and they had an apartment in Buckhead. While David studied for the bar exam, she was the breadwinner, working as a high school teacher. She’d be on maternity leave soon, though: she was pregnant with their baby. The neighborhoods in the southwest area of the city had more Black folks, and the real estate was cheaper, but the crime was too much. The thieves had become too bold.
David would ask his wife along to our arty film, rubbing on her round belly.
“I don’t like to leave you alone,” he said. “What if something happened?”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Carla said. “Y’all go on. I’m going to put my feet up. Enjoy my quiet time while I can.”
But she would extend an invitation to the old man and me for a late lunch. After the movie, simple sandwiches, potato chips, and dip, all that David knew to make in a kitchen. David offered to barbecue chicken on the hibachi on their patio, but Uncle Root told him, don’t go to all that trouble.
The old man and David would banter through their debate on W. E. B. Du Bois and Booker T. Washington, laughing and teasing. I’d crunch on my potato chips and look at Carla in her classy maternity outfits, her fingers long and elegant, even in pregnancy. Her brown face roundly angelic. She always wore lipstick and eyeshadow.
Carla didn’t seem threatened by me, and I was relieved, instead of resentful. I was over David now. My childhood really was past, and he had indicated the same. He didn’t act uncomfortable around me, but he was no longer flirtatious. At the movies, the old man sat between us. And in the apartment that he shared with his wife, David didn’t avoid speaking about the past, but he always included a third person in his narrative. Remember that time I got him and Boukie whipped? Or, remember that time we three went to Dr. Hargrace’s pecan tree and he told us he was almost lynched?
David’s little girl was born in October. If the weather was fine, he’d take a break from his studying and drive his small family to Red Mound. The baby—Brittany—decked out in her lace dress with petticoats underneath. She was good-natured, either sleeping or cooing through the first half of service. It was only in the second hour that she started protesting, and Carla would take her outside. I would sit on the front steps of the church, talking to Carla as she breastfed the baby, covering herself with a light blanket. I’d ask, did she need anything? Was there something she wanted from her car? Then there would be the strains of the final hymn, the signal that service was ending. We heard David’s grandfather singing off-key, and always, Carla and I would laugh. Mr. J.W. couldn’t sing worth nothing. When he died in January, I felt guilty for making fun of him.
Like my great-grandmother’s homegoing, Mr. J.W.’s funeral was held in the gymnasium of the old high school that my mother had attended. The difference was that Mr. J.W.’s obituary listed a colorful account of his life, such as when he’d been a younger man, he had run the road. He’d chased women and drunk more than his share of liquor. Even after he’d been a deacon, his behavior had been disgraceful. But that was when he’d been “in the world,” before the Lord had spoken to Mr. J.W. and he’d truly been saved, not just by the words of his mouth, but by his deeds.
I was familiar with this testimony; Mr. J.W. had been giving it in church since I was a little girl, though I hadn’t understood the significance of it back then. Someone had written down one of his testimonies, presumably word for word. It appeared beside a picture of him in his golden years. He had worn his hair on the longer side, though it was pure white. In the picture, it flowed from underneath his favorite stingy brim, the one with the blue feather in the band.
At the service, there were no shocking revelations, as I’d seen at other Chicasetta funerals. No secrets decked out in scarlet, because Mr. J.W. didn’t have any mysteries. He had five grown children with Miss Jolene, but also five outside children, from the times he’d stepped out, before following the Jesus-lit path. His widow was a forgiving woman. Miss Jolene made no distinction between any of her dead husband’s outside progeny: they were listed on the obituary, along with their three mothers. These women were labeled “beloved friends of the deceased.”
I sat two rows back from the family, and my heart loosened at the sound of David weeping. He had been his grandfather’s close companion, learning to fish and hunt with him. My mother had flown down, and at our small repast table, she and my granny whispered about Mr. J.W. Look at all these kids he had, and only half of them by Miss Jolene. She sure had been a patient woman, and sweet, too, inviting these heifers he’d cheated with to the funeral.
Like that one at that table across the room. Hadn’t Miss Jolene burned Mr. J.W. with grits over her? That woman sure had gained some weight. Remember that fine frame she used to have? That body had gone to Glory, same as Mr. J.W. And no wonder: the woman was on her third plate. Looked like her arches had fallen, too.
They tried to include Uncle Root in their gossip, but the old man said his name was Bennett, and he wasn’t in this mess. He kept his eyes on his plate while he munched the repast.
“Goodness, this chicken is delicious! Somebody stuck a foot in this, right up to the ankle.”
“Root, you know I fried that chicken,” my granny said. “You just trying to change the subject!”
Indeed, he was, because he was too old for gossiping about folks. Thus far, in his ninety years, Uncle Root had escaped catching a pot of grits, and here they were, trying to get him killed, when he was past his prime. And could somebody get him some more chicken, please, put a roll on the plate, and then let him eat it in peace?
My mother and my granny giggled, holding hands, and I tried not to laugh. I put my arm around his shoulders, and he said at least he had me. I would keep him safe from these two troublemakers.
Shower and Pray
A few days after Mr. J.W.’s funeral, Uncle Root received his annual invitation to Founder’s Day at Routledge College. It had been two years since I graduated, and Roz had kept me up on the news about my classmates. Some had continued their studies, while others were working full-time jobs. A third of my graduating class were married, and when I thought about running into any of them, my extended vacation didn’t seem so wonderful anymore.
I tried to talk the old man out of going to Founder’s Day, but he put his foot down. He told me I had nothing to be ashamed of. I was grieving two deep loves. People needed to understand that, and as for him, he wasn’t a young man anymore or even middle-aged. He’d promised himsel
f not to miss another Founder’s Day. He didn’t know how much time he had left, and the last time he’d skipped had been the year that Rob-Boy Lindsay had died.
“You know I hate when you talk about dying,” I said.
“Are you feeling guilty?” he asked. “Because that is the purpose of this macabre conversation.”
On campus, nothing had changed. At the gate, the pots of camellia shrubs burst with pink blooms, and as I steered around the long driveway, the sprinkler system, timed to waste water, kept the grass thick and green. We parked and walked past students in their jeans and T-shirts. I was only twenty-four, but I felt ancient. Had I ever looked this unfinished? This new?
When we arrived in the chapel, the old man wouldn’t stop waving. There were his former students. His colleagues. He was the only one left in the class of 1926, but he’d taught so many who sat in the pews. Dean Walters. Mrs. Giles-Lipscomb. Dr. Oludara. Half the history department and a third of English and biology. I’d forgotten that he was more than my great-great-uncle. He’d given three-quarters of his life to this college, to most of the people sitting in this room, and I’d tried to keep him away from his other kin. All because I was unemployed and embarrassed.
Dr. Oludara didn’t hide her joy at seeing me. In the faculty dining room, she trotted over. I tensed, then tried to fix my face. To get my lie straight, in case she asked me, what was I doing these days? Was I going to make something of myself? But she only hugged me, and I sniffed the familiar, smoky odor of her incense.
“Belinda, have you finished that book yet?” the old man asked.
“Dr. Hargrace, you know better than to ask. My nerves are so bad!”
“You better get on it,” he said. “I heard through the grapevine that Yaw Abeeku person is shadowing your every move, trying to get his book finished before yours.”
“Yes, he is! Fortunately, he has no manners. Do you know when he was on St. Simons Island, he tried to haggle over prices with the basket ladies?”
“No!”
“Dr. Hargrace, yes, he did!”
“Does that man not understand that we Negroes don’t haggle on this side of the ocean?”
“Well, you know, Abeeku is from Ghana, but he was trained in the British system. And that sense of entitlement is so strong. I have the same problem with my Femi, though I’ve almost broken him down.”
“Belinda, you’re so funny!” The old man threw back his head.
“But I don’t know what to do in the fall, once my sabbatical is over. I can only threaten to leave so many times to get a course release. I’ll be back teaching and still running the department. I really need a research assistant. It’s just too much.”
“That is such a coincidence. Because Ailey was just telling me the other day, she really needs a job. Weren’t you?”
“Sir?” I asked. “Excuse me?” I had only been half listening. Scanning the room and making sure none of my former classmates were here. Roz had told me the gossips reported that Abdul Wilson had showed to campus to haze Gamma hopefuls. The last thing I needed was to run into him.
“I said, Ailey, I was just telling Belinda here that you were looking for a job.”
“I am?”
“Yes, sugarfoot. You are. You said you really need a job because you’re bored.” The old man patted my shoulder, his smile sweet. Cajoling, but I’d seen his charm on display enough times to know that I was being played.
“This is such luck!” Dr. Oludara clapped her hands and the bracelets sang. She couldn’t pay me too much, she told me. Only gas money plus fifty dollars a week, and Uncle Root told us he thought he saw some of his former students across the room. He would leave the two of us to work out the details.
As he walked away, I threw invisible darts at his tweed-covered back. Damn that old man’s time. I should have known this was a trick.
* * *
As chairperson, Dr. Oludara had access to two offices. Her administrative office was large and neatly pristine. The other, smaller office was down the hall, and that’s where she kept her research materials. When we’d talked on the phone, she’d told me that, as her research assistant, it would be my job to organize the books and articles that she’d collected.
Early that Monday, Dr. Oludara gave me a key to the smaller office, and told me she’d check on me at lunchtime. She’d paid for a semester meal ticket in the refectory, in case I didn’t want to bring lunch from home.
When I opened the door of the office, there was a space about three feet square that was free of clutter. I walked inside and shut the door behind me. The clean portion of the floor was sparkling with sunshine that came from the window. As for the rest of the floor, it was taken over by banker’s boxes. Many, many banker’s boxes. On one wall, a tall bookshelf coughed out stacks of books and papers. Along the adjacent wall, a table covered with other stacks, along with small wooden boxes filled with blank index cards. I was being paid less than minimum wage to organize all this shit.
There was a phone on the table, and I picked it up. Uncle Root was going to hear about this, but when I dialed “9” to get an outside line, I was informed that I needed a code to make a long-distance call.
Dr. Oludara knocked on the door. When I didn’t answer, she opened the door slowly.
“I’m very sorry. I know it’s a mess. You’re not going to quit on me, are you? Please don’t quit.” She sounded like a little girl.
“This is a lot. Like, a whole bunch.”
“Can I buy you a plate of ribs for lunch? Would that help?”
“Sure. Okay.”
I didn’t do any work that day. I stuffed myself with too many ribs, French fries, and white bread, and then I drove back home early.
At the old man’s house, he raised his eyebrows and made a production of looking at his watch, but I sighed as I flopped beside him on the settee. I complained for an hour, until Uncle Root stopped me. Every job had its problems, but I’d committed to Belinda Oludara, and I couldn’t back out now. He’d promised her that I’d stay on for six months, and if I did the math, that was twelve hundred dollars plus the money for my mileage. Think of what I could buy for myself with all that money. Also, I would embarrass him greatly if I quit, and it might cause him to have a heart attack and keel over from stress.
The next morning, I was sitting in the middle of the office floor when Dr. Oludara came in. She made enthusiastic noises—how happy she was, how grateful she was—but I didn’t answer. I made a show of dumping boxes of their contents, until she told me she’d let me get back to work. As I made my way through the mess, I was amazed to realize that the woman that I’d been in awe of back in college had horrible organizational skills. There weren’t any file folders, only uncollated pages inside the banker’s boxes. When Dr. Oludara made copies of articles, she threw them in a box. Ditto for the books.
Each day, I cleaned in two shifts of three hours each. I’d sit on the floor sifting through piles of papers and books and decide which of them corresponded with each of the nine chapters of Dr. Oludara’s book. Then I labeled banker’s boxes for each set of materials. The materials I was unsure of, I placed into boxes with no label. For each article, I made a file folder. I turned the radio on low, singing inappropriate rap songs as I worked, skipping over the curse words. After my first shift, I’d break for lunch, head to the refectory, and sit in the corner reading my own book, a mystery or romance.
At the end of my day, I’d knock on the door of Dr. Oludara’s other office and give her a neat stack of unassigned materials. I’d ask her to make a handwritten list of the proposed chapter that each article and book corresponded to, and to fill out an index card with the bibliographic information for each source. I’d already begun filling out cards for the materials in the banker’s boxes, and placing each one in the little, wooden box.
Every time I gave her a handful, she told me I was amazing. I didn’t know whether she was flattering me or not, but my first four weeks of work, she bought large rib plates for me at
least a couple times a week. I would set the grease-stained bag aside and walk over to the refectory to eat a free lunch. The ribs and French fries would be for the old man and me that night, and I’d pretend to make it healthy by putting together a large salad to go with. Uncle Root would tell me I sure was helping him save grocery money.
The day I cleaned off the office floor, I decided to celebrate by eating lunch early. I walked over to the Rib Shack, ordering extra ribs and French fries. I had ripped open the bag when I remembered there was a closet in the office. When I opened the door, I saw another stack of banker’s boxes in the closet, as tall as I was, and I decided it was time for a walk, before I began to cry.
When I returned, I was relieved that none of the boxes in the closet contained research materials. Instead, they were filled with office supplies: Paper- and binder clips, file folders, accordion folders, small and medium index cards, reams of copy paper, and brightly colored rubber bands, which were wrapped around each other, until they formed a ball.
That afternoon, Dr. Oludara came down to the office. She wanted to sit a spell. She grabbed a rubber band ball and threw it against the newly clean floor.
“Don’t you just love these?” she asked. “They bounce! Isn’t this fun?”
“Yes. Totally. So cute.” I caught the ball and put it on the table. “Dr. Oludara, may I make a strong suggestion, as your new research assistant? With the greatest of respect?”
She sat up. “Yes, Ailey. Of course.”
“This might be a time for you to take a break from buying office supplies. You have enough for now.”
“But, Ailey—”
“Dr. Oludara. Please.” I lowered my voice, the way my father used to. I put out a hand, in his signature style. “Look at this office. Are you happy with what you see?”
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 55