We’ll be home in about ten minutes, darlin’, Jackson told Stella once they’d crossed the Guilford town line. She came alert immediately, pulled down the visor on her side of the front seat, and reapplied her lipstick, brushed her hair, popped a stick of Dentyne in her mouth to sweeten her breath. She didn’t speak but reached over to squeeze his arm with edgy anticipation. Nothing they passed, no detail however small, escaped the silent, studied gaze she cast over the landscape. They’d entered from the north end of town, where the farms were and the river and then the vistas of suburban variety sprang into view: postwar, redbrick ranch-style homes proudly perched atop manicured lawns, then Main Street with its shops and the site of Daddy’s old medical office, which Jackson duly pointed out, and at last on the southern end, sprawling wood structures sinking by the sheer weight of their years into half-acre lots dotted with flower and vegetable gardens backed up by a forest of ancient, venerable trees. He pulled into the driveway of one of the oldest homes. He waited a moment while she took it in: the long portico with its vine-covered columns and rocking chairs, the flowerbeds at the foot of the wrought-iron staircase leading up to Mama’s potted rhododendrons in early bloom, the balcony off the master bedroom. Well, darlin’, he said. We’re here. She took his hand and held it firmly, gently. It’s like a picture book, she said. Oh, my darling man grew up in a picture book, fancy that. She gave him one of her piercing, steady looks. You know, everything’s going to be alright, she said. Really, it’s going to be ok.
Mama appeared on the verandah just then, leaning on her cane, a big smile planted on her face. Apart from the cane, she looked vital to Jackson—young, even. Her hair was arranged in large, loose curls, plastered with hairspray and dyed a sparkling auburn. She had makeup on. Thick brown pencil gave a vigorous arch to her eyebrows, waxen coral a glisten to her lips. Given her weight, her face was smooth, free of wrinkles, the eyes bright as new coins. She had her good watch on and her ruby cocktail ring, a crisp flowered dress. It touched him that she’d gone to such a troublesome toilette to meet Stella. He got out of the car, opened the opposite door, helped her out. Hand in hand they approached his beaming mother who opened her arms and jiggled her fingers, urging them into her embrace. Once she had them in her grasp, she squeezed them good, then let her son go, held Stella out at arm’s length, cupped her face in her hands to study her. Oh, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you, dear? I can see what has besotted my son so. Well, welcome. Come on in, you must be tired and hungry. Sweetheart, your daddy and Bubba Ray are out. They had to go into the city for a medical appointment. They extend their apologies. They’ll be home later on this afternoon, I do hope before dark.
Jackson, much relieved, inquired: Is Daddy doin’ ok, Mama?
Well, he’s better than the last time you saw him anyway. But, Lord, that was a while ago wasn’t it? Well, you’re busy, busy, busy outshining all your classmates day and night, I suppose. How on earth have you found time to land yourself a redheaded beauty? I don’t know, Stella, dear, what made this boy of mine so industrious. He wasn’t much of a student as a child, you know, but he sure has made up for it.
Mama continued to ramble on while they entered the house, deposited their bags in the foyer, and were hustled into the dining room, where the table was set for a formal lunch. It was half-past one in the afternoon, a good hour beyond Mama’s traditional midday meal. Jackson thanked her for waiting for them and admired her service, the flowers. We’d like to freshen up a bit, though, he added, then showed Stella to the half-bath downstairs while he rushed upstairs to pee and wash his hands, splash cold water on his face, hurrying back down as fast as he could so Mama would have less time alone with his fiancée.
Too late. Stella and Mama were head-to-head practically, whispering about God knew what. They didn’t hear him enter at first, and Jackson watched Mama take her arm and put it around Stella’s shoulder then squeeze in a gesture he could only interpret as one of comfort or encouragement, a fact that mystified him completely. Then they noticed him. In tandem, both heads shot apart from each other as cheek to jowl they were ‘til that moment, cheek to jowl, he registered, imagine that. Their two sets of eyes bored into him with an intensity that left him no choice but to wonder what it was exactly he’d done wrong. Stella broke the ensuing silence—a brief one, so very brief, but also tremendously heavy—first.
Sweetheart, she said brightly, your mother’s been explaining to me her theory about Mombasa and what happened to your father.
Oh, Lord, Jackson thought. After the physical presence of Bubba Ray, this was precisely to the letter what he did not want to face before he had a chance to recover from the drive. He’d hoped it would take at least a day or two ‘til Mama got around to pointing fingers.
Mama. Don’t. Not a soul on earth knows what really happened except me and Bokay, and no one believes either one of us. Besides that, I’m hungry.
The accused’s words are always suspect, dear, and you were concussed. What you think you know is all in your head.
Like I said, no one believes me, and I’m hungry. Why don’t we just eat a calm and pleasurable meal as we’re right off the road and maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow in the afternoon we can have us a good old-fashioned Sherlock Holmes hour of fact finding and conjecture. Really, Mama. I’ve bragged to Stella about Southern hospitality until I’m sure she’s disappointed there wasn’t a red carpet laid out on the front steps for her. So couldn’t we indulge in a little of it first?
All sweet submission, Mama bowed her head then peeped upward at her son in angelic apology. Her upper lip pursed itself while the lower jutted out in a plump, pleading pout. It was, to be sure, a somewhat grotesque image she provided, like something twisted out of Tennessee Williams. Stella’s eyes went wide watching her. A tiny guttural sound issued from her throat, representing the heroic containment of gargantuan amusement. Jackson widened his own eyes, cautioning her. At the same time, his chest felt a stabbing pain that was, he knew, embarrassment for Mama and anger, too, at his darling Stella for finding her ridiculous. Mama couldn’t help what she was, and what she was was something deserving of respect. What could Stella possibly know about Mama’s upbringing in the backroom of a warehouse, the bargains she made to achieve her status as a Jewish doctor’s wife, the double-barreled burden of Bubba Ray and Daddy’s reversal of fortune, the graceful way she bore it? Yes, she was a provincial with mannerisms as quaint, as antique, as they were comical to Yankee eyes. After three years up north, he could admit that. Hell, they were all provincial down here, but where was it written provincial was such a terrible thing? And Stella, he wanted to say out loud, what makes you think your self-righteous sophistication is any holier? These thoughts occurred in virgin territory of Jackson’s mind. He was unaccustomed to criticizing either his mother or his lover, and the novelty of it confused him, made him breathe dangerously fast. His face turned a vibrant red, so he mumbled something about the heat and his blood sugar and sat down opposite Stella, touching his foot to hers under the table with more underscored warning than affection. Stella turned her head away from Mrs. Sassaport, offering him a clandestine expression: one eye half shut, the opposing eyebrow raised. Later, he muttered through clenched teeth, later. He fanned his napkin noisily in the air then placed it over his lap.
Mama was oblivious to everything, although Jackson suspected her apparent ignorance was a pose, a valiant nicety to spare her future daughter-in-law the pain of acknowledging her rudeness. Holding her hands aloft close to her left ear, she clapped them twice rapidly like a flamenco dancer. In a matter of seconds, an elderly black woman, as thin as Mama was portly, stuck her head through the dining room door. Eula, Mama said, bring on the dinner, please. Alright, Miss Missy, Eula said, then reappeared with a tureen and ladle from which she dispensed a cold cucumber soup into the china bowl set in front of each diner. Mama introduced her. Eula this is my son Jackson, of whom you have heard so much, and this is his fiancée, Miss Stella Godwin of Boston, Massachusetts. Childre
n, this is our latest and greatest major doma, Eula Rawlins, who has taken the place of Nora Jean, who replaced Ethel the Red, as Daddy called her, who replaced Sister Cynthia, who replaced Katherine Marie, who remains affianced I do believe to the infamous Mombasa Cooper, whom my entire family and this entire town knows as L’il Bokay. Mama flung herself back in her chair enormously satisfied with her recitation. Jackson smiled weakly, then turned in his chair to look about the breakfront for a bottle of just about any kind of drink, as he was beginning to feel a distinct need.
How do you do, Miss Rawlins, or is it Mrs.? Stella asked. This appears very excellent soup.
Eula glanced at Mama sideways, and the two of them shared a heavenly host of thoughts before Eula answered: Thank you, Miss Stella. As a matter of fact, I do have a husband of thirty-five years but please call me Eula, or I’ll think my mother-in-law’s come to call. If you’ll excuse me now, I’ve got your next course to attend to. Mr. Jackson, you lookin’ for somethin’?
A little white wine would go well, Eula, if there’s some about. Or a beer.
Yessir. I’ll locate you somethin’ like.
Why, whenever did you become a drinking man, Jackson? Mama’s voice had an edge of concern beneath its playfulness.
Stella laughed. Jackson? A drinking man? Hardly, Mrs. Sassaport. Every once in a while when he’s tired or overworked or celebrates the unusual, I’ve seen him take more than a drink or two. But compared to the boys at the university, he’s the soul of sobriety.
Well, it is the middle of the afternoon, dear, and there’s plenty of ice tea on the table. You cannot blame me for jumping to conclusions. And I think you should get used to calling me Mama, don’t you?
Eula reappeared with a dusty bottle of Passover wine left over from holidays past, which she wiped with her apron and set before Jackson along with a juice glass. Jackson twisted the top open, quickly poured, then quaffed four or five inches of the stuff. It was sweet, it was musty, full of silt. It tasted terrible, but he was feeling punky, damn punky, and he didn’t care. He would’ve tried rubbing alcohol if that were all there was in the house. As he drank, the conversation between Mama and Stella experienced lulls in the course of which each glanced at him with a certain longing, the hope that he’d fill in the gaps. The wine tied his tongue. Or maybe it was exhaustion from driving all the way from Connecticut to Mississippi, their longest stop at the garage in Tennessee. Or maybe he was just annoyed with the two of them and in a punishing mood. In any event, he did not accommodate.
After clearing the soup bowls, Eula served the cheese grits and fried catfish, accompanied by a side of greens atop of which she’d crumpled up crisps of bacon. Mama watched Stella push the bacon aside with her fork. Oh my Lord, she said. It never occurred. Are your people kosher, dear? Stella blushed. Well, yes, they are. I’m not particularly, but still I’ve never eaten pig. Mama shot a look of reprimand in Jackson’s direction. You could have told me, son, it said, rather than subject me to this highly uncomfortable moment. Jackson poured himself another few fingers of wine. Mama smiled bravely and launched into her safest topic: family.
Tell me about your people, she said to Stella, I hear they are quite established in Boston, going back how long exactly? I only ask because I do believe one of the Sassaportas of Virginia ventured up north around the same time the Mississippi Sassaports settled here. I recall hearing it was Boston to which he repaired and I believe it was a Goodman family he married into. That wouldn’t be a variant of your own name, now would it?
Jackson nodded off in his chair.
A door slammed somewhere, and he came alert to a carousel of rotating roses from Mama’s tablecloth. His head hurt, his mouth was jammed up with dust. When his vision steadied, he watched Mama’s torso twist backward and Stella’s face turn similarly toward the dining-room entrance. Stella’s gaze was especially bright, radiant with the light of her hard, clear intelligence. It was that intense look she had when she analyzed something foreign to her, something that excited her curiosity. Oh, Lord, he thought. Lord, it’s Daddy and him, isn’t it. I am not ready. But he slapped a smile on his face anyway and, stoic as a Christian martyr, rose to his feet, reeling his aching head in the direction of the table’s attention.
Daddy went directly to a spot between Mama’s and Stella’s seats at table, bent over to kiss Mama’s cheek, then bowed a little and took Stella’s hand. The eye patch he wore together with his seersucker suit and thick head of gray hair gave him a rakish look. For half a second, Jackson was sure Daddy was going to go Prussian, click his heels, and kiss her hand. But he did not. Instead, he took his gloved hand, the one that stuck out from the edge of his silken sling, and cupped her chin. So this is my new daughter, he said. Ain’t she pretty, Mama? Here, stand up for me, girl. Turn around so I can get a good look at the whole of you. Oh my, Mama, she’s a bit thin, don’t you think? We’re going to have to fatten you up, child, if we’re ever gettin’ grandbabies out of you.
Daddy had his first sight of Jackson in more than a year, nearly two. You look well, son. Glad to see they haven’t worn you down to a nub. The two maneuvered around the table to hug each other briefly, after which Jackson returned to his chair and Daddy sat down at the head of the table opposite Mama, calling out: Eula! Eula! The man of the house would like sustenance! Then he took to banging his good hand against the table, which he apparently intended to keep up until the woman appeared. Mama looked at Jackson and said: Ever since the accident, you know, he’s become downright effusive. She turned toward Stella to further explain her husband’s boisterous manner: I believe he sincerely thought he bounced off of death’s door, and this gave him a renewed, no, a redoubled zest for life. We can hardly contain his spirit.
No, Mama, Jackson wanted to interrupt. He does not have a renewed nor a redoubled zest for life, he’s just gone stone-cold crazy is all. And it was not an accident in the sense you describe it. Not at all. But he could not say this in front of the damaged man that was his father. He and Stella exchanged a look of understanding. She knew what was what. He’d told her enough. So she smiled at Daddy and put her hand on his good wrist to keep the racket down and asked: I hear you had an appointment today. How did it go?
Bubba Ray’s voice, a low, slurred rasp, a caricature of a gentleman’s drawl, came from the hallway. A steel claw took hold of Jackson’s nerves and rattled every inch of him.
He’s comin’ along, Bubba Ray said. Well as anyone can expect.
The great hulk of his brother stood in the doorway, filling it up, each arm spread out to grasp the frame, supporting his heft there, so that he looked to Jackson like nothing so much as a gorilla about ready to swing. Mama made introductions, and Stella got up again to give his brother a kiss on his cheek, an incomprehensible act that flummoxed Jackson into mute awareness of the changes in Bubba Ray, the changes that three years had wrought.
Bubba Ray, the detested, the dark, the devil, was bigger than ever, adult-sized yet soft-looking, with a full beard of stubble. It struck Jackson that there was no member of his family the boy resembled, neither immediate nor distant. As far as he could tell, there were no such heavy eyelids anywhere on the Mississippi Sassaport family tree or on the Fine, no such curlicue hair or long baby jowls sloping over a stubbled jaw. Surely, thought Jackson, and not for the first time, there was a clever, lively teenage boy handsome and fine-boned who was living somewhere in Hinds County with a tribe of dull giants, that unfortunate child who’d got mixed up somehow in the hospital with this alien, Bubba Ray. Hanging on to the lintel by one overlong arm, the creature in question then gestured to him with a wide sweep of the other.
I would say it’s good to see you, brother, he said, but we both know that’s not true.
Jackson would have agreed, but Mama erupted into a chain of giggles as if Bubba Ray’s rare effort at honesty was an example of great wit. Those boys of mine, she said to Stella, who had returned to her chair, always joking each other. Always.
Eula appeared with a p
late full of fish and grits for Daddy, asked Bubba Ray what he wanted, and soon the whole family was seated together while Mama chatted about the Cousins Club meeting she’d organized over the weekend to introduce Stella to the extended clan. Daddy busied himself eating, Bubba Ray slurped his soup, and Jackson poured himself more wine.
When the meal was over, Stella required a lie-down, and it was time for Mama’s daily nap as well. Mama took Stella upstairs to Jackson’s childhood bedroom and instructed him that he would be spending his stay downstairs on the couch in Daddy’s study, which Eula had taken great pains to set up. Something told him he didn’t want Stella up there at close quarters to Bubba Ray without himself positioned as buffer, but he was too groggy to express an objection. After he was ensconced in the doctor’s study, Jackson found Daddy’s store of bourbon quick enough and hit that bottle as well, feeling a wild sense of incaution so uncommon to him it amounted to rebellion. He found this satisfying without in the least comprehending why.
A soft voice in his ear woke him, but when his eyes fluttered wide apart, there was no one there. He was unsure what time it was, but it was dark, and the house was still. His head pounded, his throat was raw. He headed toward the kitchen for water and saw the lights were on. According to the living-room clock, it was just after eleven. Now, he distinctly recalled Mama telling them that Eula slept at her own home, that it was impossible to get a good girl to live in anymore, failing to mention the equally relevant fact that the family could no longer afford a live-in. He remembered that conversation for the bristle in Stella’s spine at the word “girl” and how he’d nudged her under the table to silence any wisdom she’d try to dispense to Mama on the subject of the proper way to speak about women of color. He arrived at the kitchen, wondering why it was alight, when to his utter shock and dismay he saw Bubba Ray and Stella there at the breakfast table chatting over tea in their bathrobes. Much perturbed, he said: What are you doing? and the two of them looked up startled, uncomprehending so he repeated: What are you doing? And Stella said: Why, getting to know each other.
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