“You appear to be a man who could stand a big hunk of peach pie with a tall glass of iced coffee.”
“It sounds like heaven, but I want to finish this first.”
“You ain’t gotta worry about the back. Nobody sees it facing the woods.”
“No, when you do a job, you do it right. It’s not going to take me much longer.”
Miranda just nods but she likes his answer. It scares her sometimes how much she likes this boy. She hopes Baby Girl knows what she’s got. It would be a crying shame for them to go the way of so many of these young people nowadays. Just letting things crumble apart, ’cause everybody wants to be right in a world where there ain’t no right or wrong to be found. My side. He don’t listen to my side. She don’t listen to my side. Just like that chicken coop, everything got four sides: his side, her side, an outside, and an inside. All of it is the truth. But that takes a lot of work and young folks ain’t about working hard no more. When getting at the truth starts to hurt, it’s easier to turn away. Yeah, you go on and paint the back of my coop so them live oaks can witness what you made of.
Our worst fight ever. And it was all your fault. I had told you a thousand times—not once, not a dozen—a thousand: if you don’t really want my honest opinion (about your hair, clothes, shade of eyeshadow, or the latest fashions for Pygmy women) don’t ask me for it. And you kept pushing, didn’t you? You always looked good to me, no matter what you wore. But that answer wouldn’t satisfy you that night, and it’s not as if we were dressing to petition the pope. It was a simple gathering of people you’d known all your life. I was going to be the one under scrutiny, and it had taken me only twenty minutes to ensure that they wouldn’t think you’d married a slob. I was a little nervous to begin with and your constant complaining about the humidity caking up your powder and curling your hair only put me more on edge. Who was coming to this party? An old boyfriend or something? Yes, the halter top was fine with the strings shortened, the strings long, tied into a bow, tied into a knot—untied. I came up behind you at the mirror and kissed the neck I was fighting the urge to strangle. You had used lavender water for so many years, your perspiration carried its scent without your wearing any. But that night they were in full bloom as I ran my thumbs from your chin to collarbone to relax the taut muscles under your soft skin. It helped you but now my groin muscles were tightening, and the second time I brushed my lips across your neck was for me. Just leave the top off altogether, I said as my fingertips stroked your stomach, and we just won’t tell anyone. I got an elbow right in the ribs.
“You’re not being a help, George. Everything’s a joke to you. And stop wrinkling my blouse.”
“Okay, okay. No hands—see?”
“Is my make-up all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“No, really.”
“‘Really, it’s fine. I like that eyeshadow on you.”
“But you hate the foundation?”
“No, I don’t hate the foundation.”
“So why didn’t you mention the foundation?”
“You didn’t ask me about it.”
“I asked you about my make-up—that’s eyeshadow, lipstick, foundation, blush—all of it.”
“Ophelia, that is great eyeshadow, great lipstick, great blush. There will be a hundred women here tonight who would kill for your eye lashes, since you never need mascara. And I don’t hate your foundation.”
“I guess you think I’m stupid—or deaf. Not hating something isn’t the same as liking it. You purposely did not say that you liked this foundation.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“And?”
“Well, sweetheart, why do you always buy make-up that’s too dark for you?”
“This is not too dark for me.”
“Okay.”
“But you think it is, don’t you?”
“To be honest, yes.”
“Well, who asked you?”
I had been married long enough to shut up when a conversation reached this point, there was nowhere to go from here but down into a brawl. And it was not the time or place. I didn’t remember what I mumbled under my breath, but I knew what I was thinking: if you wanted to smear that muddy stuff on your face with a bare back and arms so you looked like a Tootsie Pop, it was your business. These were your friends, not mine. It took two to tango and I was determined to let the music play on and sit this one out. But you had been married long enough as well to know how to push the right buttons to get me started.
The voices behind the closed bedroom door been rising and falling, rising and falling, for a good twenty minutes. Every now and then Miranda and Abigail will catch a word that don’t make no sense to them, but it means something inside ’cause it sets off a fresh slew of shouting. Mascara. Shawn. Pumpernickel bread. Them kids might as well be fighting in Arabic. Miranda realizes there’s a whole world in there that she ain’t got nothing to do with. Abigail spreads the lace tablecloth and wrings her hands, sets out the punch bowl and wrings her hands, while Miranda keeps on slicing up peach pie as calmly as if she was at a church supper. The first crash catches her off guard so she jumps a little, the next string of words flying through that door meaning about the same in any language. Right behind it comes another crash with a chair getting turned over, but she still won’t let Abigail barge into that room. Somebody wants help, they’ll call for it. And he ain’t in there killing your baby. If anybody’s doing the killing, it’s her.
The quiet that follows worries Abigail more than the noise before a door gets slammed and water starts running in the bathroom. She’s near about in tears when Cocoa finally comes into the living room, a little flushed and out of breath, but none the worse for wear. Miranda’s interpretation of events seems a bit closer to the truth when Cocoa asks her what George could do to stop a cut on his head from bleeding. How big a cut, Miranda wants to know. Not big enough, Cocoa tells her.
Our worst fight ever. And it was all your fault. You knew how nervous I was about that night and not a bit of sympathy. That’s because you never remembered anything important I told you. No one in Willow Springs thought that anyone would ever want to marry me and half of them were coming just to be sure that you were real. It had taken four years to get you down here, and each time I came home alone it was the same doubt in their eyes. Who could possibly want the leper? It was awful growing up, looking the way I did, on an island of soft brown girls, or burnished ebony girls with their flashing teeth against that deep satin skin. Girls who could summon all the beauty of midnight by standing, arms akimbo, in the full sun. It was torture competing with girls like that. And if some brave soul wanted to take me out, they would tell him that I had some rare disease that was catching. It would have been worse if I hadn’t been a Day. Everyone respected my family name, and Mama Day let it be known that anyone calling me anything that she didn’t call me would have to tangle with her. If they wanted to see a leper, she had ways to show them a real leper when they woke up one morning. I was treated very differently beyond the bridge—my physical features were an asset at times. But I was always distrustful of the black men who fawned over me. What was there about me that I should be so highly prized? Sure, I had grown up enough to accept myself, and no, I was hardly an ugly woman. But there had to be something a little twisted within them to think of me as a true beauty.
I know my old school friends were shocked to find out that you were successful, so it meant that you probably drooled on your shirt front or had such a godawful personality that you couldn’t get any other woman but me. I couldn’t wait for them to meet you so I could gloat. And I was going to be dressed for the part. Eat your hearts out—and he’s all mine. I couldn’t believe that you would sit there and watch me get ready for a whole hour before deciding that you wanted to fool around. Where were you when I came out of the shower without my hair done and my make-up on? And then to get back at me you refused to tell me what you knew I needed so desperately to hear. Of course that foundation was
n’t the right shade, but couldn’t you lie? I had to be perfect that evening and I was shattered. But it wasn’t the time or place for an argument, I was going to ignore you until you made that snide remark about me looking like a Tootsie Pop. Loud—you practically shouted it all the way across the room.
“I think you’d be the last authority on make-up for me, since you spent all your time running around with white women before I rescued you.”
“It was a woman named Shawn who happened to be white. A difference with a huge distinction.”
“Look, George, what you wanted was what you wanted. And what you got was what you got. It’s that simple. I know I’m not your ideal—”
“And neither was she.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Right!”
“So what was your ideal, George?”
“I’m not getting into this with you.”
“No, I really want to know. Have I disappointed you that badly?”
“Ophelia, you haven’t disappointed me at all. Only a fool would spend his life looking for some dream woman. The right woman is the one you can live with, not the one in your head. The one in my head was sheer fantasy. I used to have images of someone who was deep, deep brown …”
“Oh, deep brown?”
“Yeah, an even brown all over—her lips and everything. With smoky eyes. Crazy, huh? And she’d be dimpled and curved, so that every place you touched there was a roundness that was warm and she—”
“A woman? You were fantasizing about humping a loaf of pumpernickel bread. That’s beyond sick, George. That’s sicker than running after white girls.”
“Don’t you ever ask me anything again, okay? I was trying to be serious. And when you say I don’t talk to you, this is why. You’re hopeless. You can take the ignorant and turn it into the sublime.”
“Oh, now I’m stupid?”
“No, true stupidity is genetic. Your ignorance is a deliberate choice.”
“Well, I’m sure all your white women weren’t ignorant.”
“A woman—Shawn. Shawn!”
“That’s right, tell the whole house. Go open the window so they can hear you up in Canada, since you want the world to know that you haven’t forgotten her name!”
“And little else about her.”
“Of course not—your precious redhead with freckles. If I hear that redhead-freckled shit once more, I’ll throw up. She sure messed with your mind—to be proud of going out with Howdy Doody in drag!”
“I’m not proud of it—and I’m not ashamed, although you keep trying, don’t you. Well, it just won’t work. That was a good time in my life.”
“After that dream, I must be a poor second best.”
“Yeah, a living nightmare. I hope that finally makes you feel dark enough, so you can just stop this garbage.”
“Attacking me doesn’t change the fact that you have your values all screwed up.”
“And you’re the one painting yourself with tar? Don’t you preach to me about values until you learn to accept what you are and wipe that crap off your face.”
“Get out of here and leave me alone.”
“Baking yourself in the sun all the time—you’re headed straight for skin cancer.”
“I said leave me alone! Go on out there and wait for all your ideal women to show up—the place will be crawling with them. And if you strike out here, when you get back to New York, you can fuck the other kind you like until you’re dizzy.”
“Any kind that knows what she is would be an improvement.”
“You can kiss my …”
“That would be an improvement too.”
“Better yet—go kiss something on Shawn. She’s the one who made you so goddamned happy.”
“Being with a real woman would make any man happy.”
“She wasn’t woman enough to hold you!”
“Or a bitch enough to keep reminding me!”
I swear to you, that vase materialized out of nowhere into my hand …
Cars are parked all along the roadbed and jammed into Abigail’s front yard. This being a word-of-mouth invitation, anybody with a mouth to wrap around some peach pie shows up. Bernice and Ambush get there with the first group and she’s still double-strapping Little Caesar into that convertible, even though he’s riding next to his Grandma Pearl. Most folks are in what you’d call their middling clothes: a little fancier than everyday since it ain’t every day you get invited to meet a visitor from New York City, and a little less than Sunday wear, him hardly being the angel Gabriel.
Folks who woulda been standing around talking about two things end up talking about three. The weather is first off when they come into the house with them bulletins being on the radio and TV all day. A tropical storm is heading toward Florida, due to hit by tomorrow morning. Might peter out before it gets to Willow Springs, and then again it might not. A little rain would be welcome, a lot of rain a nuisance, and more than that—well, it’s to be fretted over when the time comes. Just keep listening to them bulletins. You better listen to the crows, Miranda says. When it gets so they start screaming, the wind’s gonna come in screaming too. The older heads, like her, remember 1920 and each got a story to tell. How whole trees come up by the roots, a Model T sent a mile down the road, the bridge exploding like it been fused with dynamite. The telling of the old stories gets better than the forecasting of the new storm and just about as fanciful. Pearl was hardly born and she got one about a house being set, furniture in place and all, right smack on the roof of another house. To some that sound more like a tornado than a hurricane; to Miranda it’s pure nonsense, since she was twenty-five that year. Nonsense or not, Pearl says, if something that big again is heading this way, her God will protect her. Miranda hopes He tells her to get her butt away from low ground—she done built that house too close to the water.
George gets asked a dozen times if hurricanes come his way. Rarely, he tells them in that clipped, proper way of his. Still the city can see some pretty bad storms. It don’t matter what answer he gives as long as they can get him to themselves for a few minutes, since he’s the second thing folks come to talk about. They been waiting years for this opportunity. It don’t pass notice that him and Cocoa manages to always be on different sides of the room, while it’s Abigail or Miranda who’s left to introduce him to folks. Polite as all get-out, he don’t fill the picture most had in their minds: taller for some, shorter for others; broader, narrower. And nobody expected to see that big old bandage over the left side of his head, which gives them the third thing to talk about. How did it happen? In one of them Central Park muggings? No, he tells them, he was out walking and ran into a tree branch.
“What was her name?” Parris asks him, grinning.
“Huh?”
“Your tree branch? I once ran into one by the name of Louise. And got a missing tooth to prove it.”
Someone else ran into a Bernadette who dislocated his right jaw. A Hester who was partial to splitting lips. A Tina Marie who bit a plug from his arm when he was out sleepwalking at night.
“Yeah, you gotta watch them tree branches.” Ambush puts his arm around George’s shoulder. “Especially the ones we grow here in Willow Springs.”
“And Junior Lee done run into whole ruby-colored tree trunks, ain’t you, Junior Lee?” Parris asks.
“Neeever,” Junior slurs.
“Ain’t no tree branch ever gonna get me, either.” Dr. Buzzard hitches up his pants. “Unless it wants to get chopped down.”
“Buzzard, you can just be quiet,” Miranda says. “You in this house by my good graces, ’cause I don’t feel like showing out in front of real company. But I got a reckoning with you.”
“Now, Mama Day, everybody’s standing around having a little fun and you gotta bring up ancient history. I was just about to tell you I ain’t tasted pie this fine since Hector was a pup.”
“Well, you better eat your fill. ’Cause it’s the last you or Hector is getting from me.”
&nb
sp; Miranda takes the empty punch bowl into the kitchen to refill it. For the occasion she’s adding fresh pineapple to her secret recipe and the party’s going real well, ’cause the riffraff she didn’t want no way left early when they found out Buzzard wasn’t gonna spike the punch. And she had to admit he was on his good behavior for her; he knew not to press his luck. She was almost decided against not letting the air out of his tires. Miranda looks up while she’s stirring in the raspberry syrup, and Bernice is in the kitchen door holding Little Caesar. His shorts, knee socks, and shirt are light blue and match her dress. She sews that way for all of them, but Ambush refuses to wear pastel dress clothes—we ain’t triplets, he says, we’re his parents. Bernice is standing there like she don’t know whether to come or go, hitching up Little Caesar on her narrow hips.
She ain’t visited proper with Miranda since the baby was born. In church or at the bridge junction, she might swap a few words with her if they happen to meet but she seldom lingers. Miranda’s never acted no different, admiring the baby when she gets a chance and passing on a hint or two about his milk, his teething, his potty training. If Bernice appeared nervous when Miranda was near him, it was the same with anybody near him. But Miranda knows she probably wouldn’t be there tonight if Ambush hadn’t made her come for Cocoa and George. Whatever was going on in that child’s head, she’d have to work it out for herself.
“Ain’t he getting too big for that?” Miranda concentrates on measuring in more syrup, “You gotta watch your spine.”
“But when I let him down, he runs all over the place. I don’t want him getting into nothing.”
“Then you just make him stay by your side.”
“Easier said than done, Mama Day.”
Mama Day Page 28