Queen Ester’s letters found their way to Helene’s house even when it wasn’t Easter or Christmas or Thanksgiving or her birthday. The words I love you were stuck in the most unexpected places. Helene remembered reading the letters aloud—some of which contained only a sentence—as she thought Queen Ester would have done, but that was a child’s fancy because she didn’t know the sound of her mother’s voice. So her Queen Ester cadence took on the note and pitch of her favorite Sunday school teacher or Annie b’s most recent but least favorite visitor. She felt relief when she received letters written on white pages and not on mangled greeting cards.
When Helene was fourteen they stopped coming. The letters, arriving so surely that they found a place in Annie b’s language—“Only things you can count on is death, taxes, and them letters you get from your mama”—were cut off, ripped away in the middle of the year, not even a trickle down to nothing, something Helene thought a fourteen-year-old could have borne.
“I can’t just stand here,” she mumbled, the soft sound menacing in the country silence. She wished for her mother, hoping that Queen Ester would come down soon and then they could pull up kitchen chairs together, knees almost touching, and Helene would point at childlike handwriting and say, “Why did you say that?” Queen Ester would smile and say, “I thought you knew.”
The sun rose higher in the sky, lighting what had been in shadow, and Helene saw a heap of tattered books that had earlier looked like a pile of colored dresses in the corner. She moved. Curiosity pulled her toward the old books, where she crouched, her eyes fixed on pages hanging precariously from their bindings.
Gowns, less splendid than the one she wore, and half-packed trunks were scattered about.
It is the Glory of God to conceal things, but the glory of kings is to search things out.
Her hands riffled through torn pages, and she reached the bottom of the book pile. In the distorting light she thought she saw a small boy of eleven or maybe twelve with a bony chest lying flat on the floor. But then the sun lifted and broke through the stripes in the curtain, and she saw that there was no little boy. It was a box, a long red box so dark it could have been mistaken for a black body. Helene pulled it toward her, lifted the lid and threw it onto the heap of books at her side. Letters.
The ones farthest away from her glowed a dim aged yellow; those in the middle of the box were the color of ivory; and the envelopes closest to her gleamed white. Helene reached for those at the back of the box, her hands slightly shaking, and picked up the last one. It had never been sent, had no postmark, but it was stamped and sealed. She held up the letter to see better and read the address:
Queen Ester Strickland
P.O. Box 246
Lafayette County, Arkansas
Helene did not think to herself, This is Mama’s and not mine. Desire uncurled inside her, chanting the words: This is the only way you’re going to get what you want. This is the only way to get what you want. She tore the envelope open as calmly as if her own name and address were printed on the outside. It never occurred to her: don’t do this. She heard no chiding voice, only the very satisfying tear of heavy paper.
She pulled, unfolded, and read:
Chess done beat Tinnie up under the house. Cause she done told him she pregnant. Her daddy leave her with Chess cause the daddy had to go get back the mama from California. Fore he go, he tell Chess, “Keep Tinnie in the house cause ain’t nothing outside but trouble.” Then Tinnie run off with some boy, like she don’t know what her daddy say to Chess, like she don’t know if her daddy beat on her then Chess sho gone hit on her if she step out of line. And Lord, don’t nobody move to stop him from beating Tinnie like he did. They hide they nappy heads cause they too scared to go grab the stick he gote. All them children, except Arthur (he the one that run and come tell me), looking at Chess go crazy on Tinnie. And ain’t a one of them gone go under to save her, cause fore Chess get in there with that stick he look at them all and say, “I kill you too.” Mama loves you.
Helene tasted a rushing sugared love as she sat in front of the box; there was bitterness too, just out of her tongue’s reach. Queen Ester could have said Chess had killed millions; it wouldn’t have made a difference. She just wanted to know where her daddy was from and whether he was surrounded by good people. Helene looked at the letter again. There was no Dear, no Sincerely, no signature. Mama, what is this? Helene thought. Her mother had set herself down in some chair and written herself a letter, in lovely handwriting as well, and to top it all off, put a stamp on it? Girl, you get your shit and go right now, she thought. Still on her haunches, Helene sat back from the box. “Well?” she questioned herself, sighing at her lack of conviction. She folded the letter and pulled out another.
James done come to see me, and out of nowhere he ask do I remember the first time I ever step out of my house. I look at him like he crazy cause he only seven years old, and what he know about remembering something? Well, I tell him, no I don’t remember any such thing, and he tell me he remember the first time he step out of his house. He tell me it was about three years ago and he guess he was about four or five and he say he walk out with his little pants on and his little hat. Then he see some bushes over to the side with some cans under them and he guess that his mama was throwing cans out of the window when she done with them. Well, he walked out about fifty or a hundred yards and he think, Well, looka here, all this been outside all this time and I just getting to it? There he is standing outside, pulling on his hat and all of a sudden, he say, “Queenie, I see a big old airplane running through the sky, and I thinks to myself, Lord have mercy.”
It was her f’s that almost made Helene cry. They bowed over like old women stirring a pot on the stove. She counted softly to herself and picked the seventeenth envelope, its color ivory, and noticed that the letter M’s on this page looked like thrashing waves.
Monroe done kill Wilde, cause Wilde whooped him in dominoes. Ain’t nobody thought about calling the police. This ain’t happened recent—long time ago, in fact—but I just thought about it now. Monroe looked shame and paid for the funeral, though. I love you.
Helene read swiftly now, not understanding all the words, just noting that her mother’s i’s looked like praying hands. Putting the letter back into the box, she moved on to the next envelope and, in her rush, pulled out two letters instead of one. The first, in her left hand, was clearly addressed to her.
My Girl,
Arthur done burn the house down in the back and Chess out there tack, tack, tacking all night long. Mama tell him he can come stay with us, but he tell her she throwed him out before and plus he trying to be a man now. Mama say maybe he knocked down for good. Arthur didn’t get beat, cause when Chess see his house and the fire he just start crying. I love you, child.
Your Mama
The second letter was addressed to Queen Ester and, except for a difference in handwriting, was the same as the first. That’s how they all were, Helene realized: doubled. Mother and daughter, mother and daughter. Now she knew without picking up the rest of them that her mother had written in twos, first to Helene, and then a copy for herself and had mailed none of them. She did not ask herself why, because the answer—that Queen Ester was as crazy as a peach-orchard boar, as Annie b had always said—was not enough. Being as crazy as a wild pig just didn’t cover it. Even a crazy pig wouldn’t set itself down and write a letter over twice, the handwriting turning lovely the second time around.
Just thinking on you today. Mama spend all her extra on Chess. He can’t get hungry fore she think to stick a slice of toast in his mouth. My wanting got to get in line. First she take care of Chess, then she see to the folks that come by here for coffee and pie, then she give a little to Mable, and maybe if I can catch her right she give some time to me. I done conjured every piece of nastiness I can and none of it do a bit of good. Last night, him and her get into a big mess of some sort. Mama hollering at him and carrying on. Everything falling over. Crash, crash, crash.
Right up till morning. And you think she’d set him out after that. Cause with him round here we can’t get no peace. But she got a biscuit in his mouth fore he can say, “Morning.” What she need him for when she got me? I love you. I ain’t a mama just in name.
Helene shivered. Not enough to frighten herself, just enough so that she wondered whether the door had been left open. Something light and feathery fluttered in her chest. She thought of her mother’s words and remembered her aunt’s voice, heavy and sour. “Them two women share that man like a blanket. Nasty the both of them.” Smacked with jealousy, the letter held a sour rivalry and malice. Queen Ester was ready to do battle. It hurt that her mother’s envy didn’t reach to Helene. Maybe her aunt was right and something nasty had been going on in this house, and what Helene held in her hands was an invitation to step into the fray, fists raised.
She was on the last pair, the last set of letters. Helene tore open her mother’s copy.
Chess done died. I don’t want to, but I dream about water every night. And I’m watching Mama close. Just now I’m getting to writing about this, cause every time I try my hands turn over and look at me like I is crazy. But I’m glad he’s gone. Mama’s face all pushed in and she broke the church up at Chess funeral. I got omens on Mama. But look like she got omens too.
Queen Ester was coming downstairs. Helene heard the stairs moan, but she didn’t rush to put the lid back on the box. Her calm hand merely brushed away a layer of dust. She heard the soft rustle of her mother’s housecoat and did nothing to restore the books’ chaotic order. She crouched, listening to the floor heaving in response to the heavy footfall. Her stomach rolled.
Slowly, Helene turned in Queen Ester’s direction. An explanation, Helene thought. Now you have to give me an explanation about Chess and all these people in these letters. But what she said was, “Mama.”
The green housedress with blue and orange flowers did not look sleep-wrinkled. Queen Ester shook her head from side to side and said, “Post office damn near thirty miles away, way off in McKamie; what else I gone do? Baby, it was such a trial getting them letters to your place, and Mama look at me funny every time I ask Mable to give me a ride up there. What else I’m gone do? It so hard to get them letters to you, cause every time Annie b get the yard the way she wanted, Ed had y’all up and moved. On the way up to McKamie, Mable telling me the mail ain’t no good. Most of the time it get lost or them fellas stick the letters in they pockets cause they just ugly like that. So, what else I gone do? I start writing a letter and pray for the best and then I make a copy for me and I ain’t got to pray cause I knowed they in the box.”
Helene sighed. “Why did you stop sending the letters to me?”
Queen Ester tugged at the scarf on her head. “Mable done run off to Chicago with her Downtown man. But I keep writing cause I can’t break off now. And as soon as I can get me a ride I go and mail what I got. How many you read?”
“Just a few.”
“What you reading now?”
“The last one.” Queen Ester stooped beside Helene, leaning in close, peering over her daughter’s head. “You didn’t date any of them,” Helene said, wishing her voice could somehow smooth the lines on her mother’s neck and calm the trouble she saw in her mother’s mouth.
“Couldn’t figure out what date I should put down. Ain’t none of it in the right time.” Gently, Queen Ester began to rub her daughter’s back while Helene sat between her mother’s legs. Her mother’s hands, old, spotted, danced around Helene’s shoulders, while Helene struggled to match her breathing to her mother’s and wondered what to do with her hands. Queen Ester continued to press behind her, her legs entrapping Helene, her housedress throwing off a scent of old age, but Helene did not tilt her head back so that her mother could stroke her hair. She curled like a misshapen rock between her mother’s knees.
“Your grandmama died seven days after that one.” Queen Ester’s voice sounded muffled as if she were talking in her sleep. Then she woke up. Looking around, Queen Ester saw her daughter crouching between her legs and the box of letters open in front of them.
“Let’s gone back to the kitchen,” Queen Ester said, as she straightened up. Her walk back to the kitchen was smooth, mesmerizing, unlike her usual gait, which was a precarious stroll that wobbled as if she didn’t know her own feet. Helene followed her, her feet mimicking her mother’s, the slide and lift of a funeral procession, with only the chairs, sofa, and cabinet to witness their wake.
Queen Ester found her place against the counter, her eyes set and drowsy and her mouth pulling into a grim and grievous line. “Chess drowned hisself on a Sunday, so I guess Mama thought Sunday was a good day for her to pass too. Didn’t hurt her, I think. She got up and cooked breakfast for all us, me and Other and Mable. Lord, Mama scouted around the house and came up with some fresh eggs. How she do that, I don’t know, cause none of them chickens worked in the house. She was happy, you hear?” Queen Ester pushed off from the counter and went to the other end of the kitchen. “Your grandmama could walk,” she said. “She knew how to take a step in the right way. God-given talent.”
She smiled then. Out in the middle of the floor, with her hands above her head, Queen Ester and her half dance, half walk, moved the tile beneath her. Suddenly she twisted toward Helene, her hands still raised above her head.
“See, our preacher was a big-face man—all swollen up. Mama used to say his face like that cause he was heavy-handed with the salt. Well, you ought to a seen Pastor Johnson—or was that Pastor Jackson?—when Mama was making her way to church on Sundays. He see us coming and he say to Mama all uppity like, ‘Sister Liberty, I got a mind to see to it you leave first out your house so everybody can follow them tracks of yours.’ Well, we just bout in the door and Mama looking over pastor’s shoulder—trying to find a seat for all us, I guess—and then she look at him; push a little wind through her teeth and say, ‘Morning, Pastor.’ Then he step aside and we file in behind Mama.”
“I don’t know what happened to the pastor, but he see us walking to the church on Sunday and he say, “God don’t like righteous women with loose ways, Sister Liberty.” Queen Ester threw out her chest, pulling on the lapels of her house-dress as if it were a jacket, to play the Reverend Johnson.
* * *
Helene saw her grandmother’s stride, steps so small they reminded her of her own. Then she saw Aunt Annie b, her back to Helene’s own small eight-year-old face. “I done told you the way,” Aunt Annie b said, her hands hasty with the morning’s dishes and Helene’s lunch sitting on the counter. Helene saw herself with scuffed shoes and her hair parted and rubber-banded in sections.
“I don’t know it no more,” Helene had whispered back to her aunt, not wanting Annie b to think she was afraid. Helene waited for her to turn around, pull on one of her braids, and pat her on her bottom, and then together they could stumble out the back door. Instead, Annie b raised her voice to match the hit and clang of the morning dishes. “I done told and showed you the way, now. Helene, I don’t need this kind of mess this early in the morning.” Hearing her aunt unmoved, Helene did what all eight-year-olds do: she cried.
But Annie b did not turn around, and there was no quiet space between the dishes’ crash to tell the child that her aunt heard her fear. Helene stopped crying and grabbed her lunch with sweaty palms.
“You’ll get there, all right. Ain’t gone be no trouble at all,” Aunt Annie b said, a sudsy cup clutched in her hand. She walked Helene to the back door. “You just go on now,” she said, and shut it behind her niece. Outside, in the morning’s new air, Helene knew that her feet were just not big enough to get her to where she needed to go.
* * *
She remembered her little hands full of bologna sandwich and cold baked yam wrapped in tinfoil. She remembered her worry. She worried that the sidewalk with its seams would stretch out forever. She worried that she couldn’t hold on to Aunt Annie b saying, Three short blocks down, to the left, and then seven blocks a
nd Helene would see the school; that even if she did get lost, with all the other children coming out of the woodwork looking school-bound she could find her way; that all she’d have to do is watch for the green corduroys hanging in Mrs. Allecto’s backyard, and she couldn’t miss those corduroys since rumor had it that they’d been hanging there for almost twelve years on account of a fight between Mrs. Allecto and her husband’s laziness.
Helene took a deep breath and walked out to the sidewalk, wishing she could step back inside the blue front door. But instead she counted the concrete stitches in the pavement: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Helene hoped the stitches would run out at fifty, because after five and zero she thought of the numbers in the wrong way. She wondered why only clear blue sky and morning silence watched her passing. Why, despite Annie b’s promise and the fact that she was on the second block, past Mrs. Henry’s house where Helene went on Tuesdays to practice piano, not one school-bound child had even looked outside a door on either side.
Maybe she had left the house too early or too late; maybe all the children had vanished; maybe Aunt Annie b’s word had fallen in on itself, so now Helene couldn’t even count on the corduroys being there. But she couldn’t walk back to the house. She had already taken the left and was on the fourth of the seven blocks. Helene had counted all the way to thirty-seven. Her eyes strained for any sort of green that looked out of place. “Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three,” and she still saw no corduroys or Mrs. Allecto, who Aunt Annie b said sometimes stood on her porch and smoked a pipe.
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