by Diane Munier
After a while I sat up then and he showed me how he unstrapped the leg, and when he removed it with the pant leg still on the bottom part and his boot, and there was his stub, and that was better somehow, like it wasn't hiding anymore in that hideous thing, and there was his flesh, red some, and his leg gone, his leg that I loved, a part of him, so much of his body…and I knew he nearly died, he nearly died, and this, and all it meant, all the months and months in the hospital, the pain, the recovery. The cruelty of this. I hated this war. I hated war. I wanted this leg back. I was mourning this leg.
I knelt on the floor, between his thighs, and I laid my face on the stump and I felt the life still there, and I moved to place kisses where it ended, and I felt where it ended, and I ran my hands over it, and I laid my face there, my hair all over him, wet and sticky, like my face and the endless tears.
Finally he lifted me. "Is it disgusting?"
"No," I hissed. "How can you say that? War is disgusting. What you had to go through is disgusting."
"I don't want you to be angry. And I don't want pity. Is that what you're feeling?"
"No, no. But I hurt…I hurt…." More tears. "You know…I told you…when you hurt…."
"It's the same for me," he said. "It's no less for me."
"You didn't write…all this time…I couldn't see you…I didn't know….I knew you were hurting…I couldn't touch you…it's been so hard."
"Robert told me about the hospital…that you…all those months…."
"It doesn't matter. None of that matters. I was catered too. It's nothing compared to this. I have Seth. I'm so blessed. But you…you…." More tears.
"Hey…let's not have a contest," he said and he laughed a little and it was the first time I could even think….
And I laughed a little. He could always make me do that…at the worst times.
"You're home," I said, and I kissed his sweet mouth and it was so gentle.
Then he helped me get my flannel shirt off and the undershirt beneath. Then the bra.
"Whoa," he said in appreciation of my new bigger boobs. "These are…even more gorgeous," he said in true awe.
I lost no time in getting off my jeans, hoping he'd also be dazzled by the five extra pounds I had going on there. Right away he did seem appreciative. "Oh my God," he said, no hold back. He was like a starved man.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said and he started to kiss me everywhere and I said, "Oh my God I remember this." And I did, right away, his warm wet mouth that pulled the blood right under my skin and made me crazy.
He maneuvered us around so he was sitting with his back on the pillows and he had me over his lap. "Can you…I mean…do you want to?"
"I'm fine. I want to," I said.
"Sit on it," he told me, his voice thin and breathy, and I did and almost instantly he came.
"Oh shit," he said, and his hips lifted, and his face looked like he was stuck in ecstasy. As he came down he started to apologize.
"Don't you dare," I said, and he pulled me in to his arms and we held each other there. And we cried some more, but not like at first, and we slept some, and kissed some, and touched some, and felt the first painful thaw of our life together, the first rays of light and warmth and real.
My lover.
Finding My Thunder 55
After minor haggling to get enrolled, I graduated from technical school with my high school diploma. Danny also studied welding and machines at a technical college in Memphis using the G. I. Bill. He and Robert worked for Allie in between all of that until he graduated and we opened our own shop in Ludicrous. That's about the time we had our little girl Elizabeth.
I was pregnant with our third child the summer of nineteen-seventy-four and we were having a fall birthday party for our Elizabeth in the backyard. Dickens, or Rick as we were now instructed to call him, was giving Seth and Elizabeth, and Robert's three year old Dave-Bird and Tad and Debra's two year old Leon a ride in the wagon attached to the riding lawn mower. I heard Danny call out that he should take it slow and Rick knew that, so he just ignored Danny and kept going in a slow circle.
Danny and Tad and Robert were barbequing. Debra was in the kitchen with Danny's mom mixing up punch and working on the side dishes for the meal. Paul didn't come to these affairs, but the rest of the family did, and Annie and Rita and Danny's two youngest siblings spent as much time in our house as they did their own.
Work-wise, Robert had stayed with Allie, but Tad ended up working with us, with Danny mostly. Robert hadn't changed much over the years, but he did marry the mother of his child, and he finally bought a house in Redfern and moved out of the commune. He was a pot smoking solid citizen.
Naomi had baked our daughter Elizabeth's birthday cake. I was walking slowly with her to retrieve it and carry it back to the party. We were ambling cause Danny and me had just gotten to the place in our renovations where we could get serious next spring about the landscaping. Naomi had so much to tell me about the way things used to be when my great grandmother Susan had this yard kept as a showplace. We'd made it as far as the Cannas garden.
There had been some digging there by one of Sooner's puppies all grown up. He was a brown ball of energy just starting to age enough to calm down. We called him Bosco. "I'm going to have Danny turn this over," I was telling my grandmother, "and put in some Cannas this year."
I was doing this for her. It was time. Inside I had done some things to honor Mama. Danny had built shelves for her records, and I had handled her clothing with care. Her skirt became a throw pillow on my and Danny's bed, that island of decadence we shared our very rich private love life upon. But Eugene, it was always this garden, and to leave it wrecked…it was time to do something about that.
"I would leave this place undisturbed," Naomi said, her arm threaded through mine.
That surprised me some. She loved everything we did in the yard.
"It's…," she breathed in then and let it out and it sounded shaky.
"What is it?" I asked, flipping my long braid over my shoulder.
"I been thinking…it's a joyous day…it's Elizabeth's birthday and I don't want to rake it all up with this…but if something happens to me…I'm the only one knows about him."
"About Eugene?" I asked, tilting my head so I could better look into her face.
She was looking at that garden, at its bumpy soil, its fresh pits from the dog, the dead grass and weeds from years past.
"This is a grave," she said. "There is a baby buried here."
"What baby?" I said this, and all at once, I knew.
And as she spoke, a story unfolded in my mind, its fragile pieces, like kites I'd pulled from the sky to lay in a pattern on the grass. They were fitting together at long last—
There was a girl, and she did grow up in the big house in the front of the yard, raised by the grandmother who had saved her from her desperate fate when she was only two. And she was so pretty and sweet, and she brought joy to a house that had sat perfect and silent and childless for too long.
There was also a boy, and he did grow up on the same stretch of ground, in the back of the property. His avenue was an alley.
And he was also prized by the couple in back, the man and his wife unable to have children of their own, and oh how they did love him and raise him with deliberate care, celebrating everything he was. He brought them happiness.
But as he grew, for all the splendor his parents made him believe about himself, there was a hand over him, and it cast a shadow. He did not fit with those less fortunate than him, less secure, less celebrated, less accepted.
Nor was he welcomed in the big house up front.
Oh he could work the yard and visit as he leaned on the rake and drank the iced tea in the big crystal glass. But he could not visit the girl for too long…he could not call on her as he grew…he could not reveal what he felt.
And as she grew she was different than those around her, with her old parents and the haunting truth that th
ough she lived in her mother's past, her mother didn't want her.
And he did like to see her, look at her and wave and smile, and most of the time in the summer growing up he took his toys, one or two things, and he went to find her and stood out back and called her name, "Oh Renata."
And her grandmother Susan would call for her then and he would hear her shiny leather shoes come tapping across the kitchen floor and the wooden lean-to, then the screen would push wide and he would be waiting and his heart would flutter some when he'd first see her, and she'd always have that smile, and they would play, sometimes for hours, and she would boss him in all their games, but he didn't care she was just so interesting and funny by turns, and he just liked being with her, something inside, it knew he belonged where she was.
Then as he got older, it got even stronger, the delight he felt around her, the interest, the need to see her, hear what she'd say and how she thought, the joy of showing off for her, his growing strength, how high he could climb the tree. And she did think he was fine even if she could be mean sometimes. He didn't care. He belonged to her.
Then it turned to music, and there they found a sameness, a oneness, and television shows, and sharing cigarettes hoping not to get found out, and that magazine she found and all the giggles, and him stealing that kiss and her blush, and what he was finding out about himself, and about her.
Oh they talked—And here's what I think of this house, yours, mine, our parents, here's what I think, me too, and this town, and all the towns, and the south, and the country, and the world.
Here's what I'm going to do…going to be…going to learn…going to see…going to have…going to stand for….
And then it got busy, and school, and work for him, and school, and clubs for her, and parties, and activities,and outings.
And he went to Temple and they worked some more, him and William keeping the grass, the grounds, visiting the sick and his mother volunteering him to do everything needed done in Snyder-town it seemed sometimes, and his dad didn't complain, was happy too, but then he got sick, and couldn't help no more.
And the girl was a young woman and he was about crazy, and mothers pushed their daughters his way and it made him so angry cause they weren't her, the one he belonged to, the one who didn't know she belonged to him.
And then Grunier came along, the white mister in uniform.
He could see right off this man wasn't good enough, kind enough, human enough.
Lonnie was his name, but he was to say, Mister Lonnie.
And his mother said, "Stay away from there Son, get the grass cut and leave…you need to go up north with your uncle Leonard, he can get you a job at the factory, one hundred twenty-five a week."
But he wouldn't hear. He wouldn't go.
He wouldn't leave her. Not even when she married Mister Lonnie. And he did lay drunk for three days over in Snyder-town and folks did say, "Naomi's boy…."
And he did go north and he took that job, and right away he could see…he was nothing. He was no one. But he did work, the beloved son, who had read too many books, who got too many looks, and that broom just felt wrong in his hand.
From back home he heard that Mister went away, in the war now, General Patton marching his boots toward Germany. And William was dying.
So he went home to bury his father and there she was, not his mother, but her, Renata Grunier they called her now. He couldn't see anything else.
And he did take his mother home that day they put his father in the ground, and Naomi did lay down and her ladies were there tending that house, and he walked to the big house, past the Cannas there that he had started and kept every year. They came up on their own now, barely knowing he was gone, and he was here.
And he did walk to that screened door where she did live in that big house all alone now and it was dark, and he did go inside, and she stood in there, in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, her back straight, her dress prim, her hands behind her gripping the edge of the sink. "What you doing?" she asked, her eyes big even in that dark.
But he did not wait, he did not slow, he went to her swift and wrapped his arms around and his full lips did find their place on hers at last, and he did bend his knees as he gave her himself. Her hands came slow and touched light, then his arms wrapped around and he did crush her to him, the hunger, the want in him like a beast now, a panting, demanding beast.
And he moved her to the table and he fell on her and she was with him in it, begging him, begging him, and kissing, and the deep sounds, and his ears filled with the stomping heart, and he got himself free, and he got himself in, and they moved the table all over that floor as he thrust into her, and gave her himself, and she screamed his name, screamed it, "Eugene, Eugene, Eugene."
His mother was not far behind. He heard the door as his senses came, and he helped Renata to sit up and he helped her right her torn dress.
And his mother was the one undone. The calmer he got the crazier she got. Renata and him, sister and brother, and Renata married, and who did he think he was…they would kill him for this. He would die.
He was already dead, didn't she know? He loved this woman, he had always loved her. He had known she was a part of him, he had known it was more than any other woman. But they'd never been told they shared blood…if they did. Naomi had been told by a woman there, one of the women…a junkie…who slept with and for…the man who had fathered them. Him and his beloved belonged to Lottie.
Why did she say it? Did he belong to her…the slattern who wanted to get rid of him seeing the two women came from money? Or was it true…did he favor his black father and Renata take after Lottie?
Susan and Naomi had not questioned it, they had taken the babies, they had no proof, just conscience. They had saved the two, the little white mother who fed the black orphan in the box, who had always been his reason for life.
And these two women took those children home, Susan indebted to Naomi for all she put up with from her demented husband growing more and more mentally sick as he aged, and he had attacked Naomi, hurt her, but she'd stayed and with Susan they wrestled the mister unto the grave.
And the children were a gift to the two who respected one another, so much that Susan saw to Naomi's security when she died, giving her a house, even if she dared not give her property in a neighborhood where home owners did not look like her.
What was not foreseen…their tie…Eugene and Renata…their love…so potent…so confused…it jumped the fence when they were small.
And he went north, but he didn't stay, he came home and the fissure in his heart had deepened, and he was a drinking man now, and he did watch that house and it did fester, the jealous eye, the jilted eye.
Renata wouldn't see him, wouldn't talk, and Mister Lonnie came home soon, he'd had a break down, and it was in and out of the hospital then, back and forth, and one night he could take no more, shuffling around cutting the grass, Naomi's colored boy working in the yard, he could take no more, and the mister was gone, and she answered the door and he begged and he cried and demanded too, and it happened again, and again, and again.
And his mother Naomi begged, and he went north and one day in the street, bottle wrapped in paper in his hand, he went across the busy street, and he did not look, he would not look…and the screech and the impact and his beautiful, broken body in the air…to land on the asphalt…the screams and the calls, and the loss. And his mother…my Naomi….
Mister Lonnie came home, back and forth. And Renata's stomach grew, and Naomi took her to Corning and the baby, and the heartbeat, and the day the pains came, she was home by herself, and Naomi came by the house, but Renata didn't answer the door.
So Naomi looked in windows, and she got in the front door, and she called and called but nothing, and up the stairs she ran, then down the stairs she ran. And deeper, down the basement stairs, and the furnace door open, and the small flame there burning bright, and on the floor Renata, pink slip and wet and blood and a little form beside, the
cord not cut and him not breathing, this little Negro baby boy. Renata said they must save him, put him in the furnace so no one will know, and the panic in Naomi.
"Where's Lonnie?" Naomi asked.
But Renata doesn't know. He stepped out. The baby….his feet so little. Renata said they had to save him…from Lonnie.
And Naomi got the mother up and into the shower upstairs. It took a long time to get her in there. And while that one stood listless under the water Naomi hurried back down, down to the cellar, and that one there…and she put him on the towel and wrapped him up. She held him for a moment. The door to the furnace was open and she moved toward that. Then she reached and pushed the heavy metal door closed.
And she carried this one up…to the garden…where Eugene put the Cannas. She got the shovel, dug a hole, and laid that child in there. She filled it in, she tamped it down, then she returned to the house. And the woman rolled into a ball, sitting lifeless under the cold water, rocking on the balls of her feet and singing, "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder."
Naomi helped her out of the water. She helped her into her clothes and tucked her into her bed and covered her to her chin.
"When Mister Lonnie comes home," Naomi said to my mama, "we do not speak of this. We tell him I took you to Corning and you miscarried. We tell him you must stay in bed and recover. Do you hear me Renata?"
Renata looked at Naomi and nodded, but she did not speak.
"You do not tell of this child," Naomi said.
"Did you save him?" Mama asked in her little girl voice.
"Yes. He is safe," my grandmother said.
And after that, it was different. They were different. Loss had bound them, cut them and deep in their wounds they held the secret, the dark baby, the dark…hidden…and no one able to save him.