“You lookin beautiful, Uncle Brother,” she told him. She was calm. “Thanks for getting me home.” She didn’t doubt he saw to it she got back. “I wanted to see M’Vy so young. I want to be little so’s I can play with tiny Dab one last time.”
Brother Rush never said a word.
“Uncle Brother, thanks for the ride. But what you want wit me in the first place?”
Brother faded before her eyes.
“Wait!”
His light faded, taking Brother far beyond. Rush was gone.
You won’t be comin back, will you? Tree didn’t bother to ask.
She left the little room, knowing Dab was dead for good. Death was what he had now, what he had wanted. She knew Brother had not just fallen from the car. He might have even opened the door. Brother had leaned out.
That’s somethin for M’Vy. But it don’t change a thing. Just make Brother die sooner.
Chapter 16
“YOU BROTHER JUMPED, M’Vy,” Tree said. She came in the kitchen. M’Vy and Silversmith were eating stew in bowls and drinking hot coffee. Vy must have made the stew while Tree was upset and sleeping off and on in her room.
“What time it is?” Tree said, and glanced at the clock. “Five thirty! I been out of it all day.” She talked calmly, but her pain was gnawing, deep. She was not certain how she would get through the night
They were staring at her.
“I seen Rush, M’Vy,” Tree said. Vy’s face seemed to turn darker. Tree knew she was forcing herself not to look over her shoulder.
“He gone now; don’t be scared,” Tree said. “Gone for good, probably. I don’t know. I ask him a last question, but he won’t say. Knew the answer, anyhow. You brother didn’t just get killed in a car accident. Ken didn’t cause him killed. Brother Rush commit suicide. Least, he meant to.”
Tears filled Vy’s eyes, glistening like beads. “Don’t, Tree. Oh, I know you hate me. But don’t make no fun of my dead Brother!”
“M’Vy, I ain’t makin fun. I don’t hate you. I know, things I said. But Dab is gone—you know how long he’s gone for? The whole rest of his life and my life, too. I been cryin for me bein by myself, too. Dab and I … Dab and I …” Tree could not finish. She had no words to describe how alone together they had been. How she loved her brother!
She shook her head. “Don’t know yet how’m I gone get through it. Don’t know if I will ever get over it.
“M’Vy, I saw Dab in the car with Brother,” Tree said. “He’s there with Brother—nothing hurts them now. They can stand the sunlight. Ain’t it strange, black men get a disease where no light can touch their skin? Ain’t it so awful strange?”
“It come from Africa,” Vy whispered. “Yea, way long time ago. It was a white man’s disease. Traced to South Africa and a Dutch settler. Then, it became a colored porphyria and made its way to America probably through the slave trade.”
“That long ago,” Tree said.
“And all down the line,” M’Vy said. “It hit our family. And you must be tested, too, Tree.”
But Tree was not listening to that. Vy could see she wasn’t paying attention. “When the funeral? We gone have a funeral for Dab?” Tree asked. “You will do that much for him, won’t you, M’Vy?”
“Tree. Tree. Course we have a funeral.”
“I know just how he should look,” Tree said. “Saw it while I was with him and Brother. Dab had on this fine pinstripe gray suit. A black tie and a silver tie clasp. I think he should have a silver belt with his name, Dabney, written in script, don’t you? And patent leather shoes and gray silk socks. A real fine white shirt. We can shop tomorrow, buy everything. Then, we have it in a big church, and have a silver casket … I can stay home the rest of the week,” she added. “We should mourn him, M’Vy. He gone forever. Stay home least a month, seems like to me.”
Vy watched Tree. She had stopped crying and was wiping her eyes with some tissues. Watching Tree, her face slowly pulled together. Puffy, strained, it was; but soon, it began to fill with strength. It grew tough, determined, the way Tree had seen it all her life. Vy got to her feet. She leaned on her knuckles pressed on the table to steady herself. Then she stood up straight, wiped her eyes one last time, studying Tree. Silversmith stood with her.
“I know you love you brother, Tree,” she said at last. “Nobody in the world doubt that. These years, you keep him and care for him so’s I could work. I appreciate that. You has been a fine, good girl.
“But they ain’t gone be no real expensive white shirt,” Vy said, her voice hard. “No pinstripe and silken socks. Buh-cause I ain’t got no two hundred fifty, three hundred dollar to buy it.”
“But I saw the exact clothes,” Tree said. “It would be a sin not to buy them.”
“I’m layin Dab out in that blue suit he wear for occasions in school,” Vy said. “And his black shoes. I’ll polish them. And his dress shirt and his black belt and black socks. They ain’t gone be no church, neither. For what? They ain’t but you and me, and Silversmith and Don, and the funeral attendants and the funeral director. That’s all. No big deal to die and get buried.”
“You sure something!” Tree hissed. “You sure do hate Dab, even he dead, you own son. Dab have all kinds of frens!”
“Name one,” M’Vy said. “He the dummy they see laughin in the street, that’s all. I don’t hate him. I wasn’t good to him when he was little, I’ll grant you,” Vy said. “But if it was hateful, it was because I was so young. So young! But there ain’t gone be all that rich stuff you want, Tree, for the simple reason I can’t afford nothing.”
“Anybody can afford it once. You can borrow it once. Let Silversmith give it to you; he seem to like you enough.”
“He would give it me, too,” Vy said. She turned, smiled up at him, a wan, sad smile. “But I ain’t gone ask him for it. I wouldn’t take it from him. I got to pay the hospital and pay for the funeral,” Vy said, “and all the tests they gave him, and for opening his throat so he could breathe a little—dint do him no good. Pay for day and night nurses, round-the-clock nursing; for the room—two hundred dollars a day!—and everythang else. I ain’t got no insurance to cover it, so I got to work for it. I got to pay the rent here, buy the food and buy the clothes.
“Me and Silversmith start our own catering service,” Vy droned on. “Borrow money to rent a place to put our stoves in. Ain’t no big deal, yet. We cater when we can, to get out from under emptying bedpans. I’m not gone never get to go back in school and be an RN. So it’s gone be bedpans or trying to start my own business. It takin time. Everythang takin time. Meanwhile, I got to stretch pennies.” She paused. “You better listen to me, girl.”
“Sure,” Tree said. “Tell me some jive. I might believe it, too.”
“I could smack you for that,” Vy said, “but I won’t. This be a day of death.”
“Of murder,” Tree said evenly.
“Whatever you want to think,” Vy said. “I know you hate me. I know you gone blame me for it all. Go head. But the funeral gone be in the funeral parlor. I’ll get a nice casket, but it ain’t gone cost no fortune. Dab be buried in his own good clothes. Then we take him to the cemetery and put him in the ground. Ashes to ashes. That’s it.”
“I hate you.” Tree was crying now. Big tears, wetting her cheeks. She commenced gasping and choking. Sobs racked her chest. “I hate you to death!”
“Maybe we not be close no more,” M’Vy said. “It happens.”
“I’ll run away,” Tree sobbed. “I ain’t stayin another night in this awful house wit you, without my brother!”
“Maybe you will, too,” Vy said. She sighed and held her hand over her heart. Silversmith touched her face and smoothed her hair. “But I hope you don’t do that much foolishness.”
“I’m gone. You never see me agin!” Tree said. “I hate you both. You nasty people, you only care bout youselfs! I wish I was dead. I’m gone get outa here, too!”
“Tree,” Vy said. Her voice was weary, distan
t. “I’ll leave money here on the table for you, in case you do take it in your head to cut on out like a fool.”
“I’m gone. You can’t stop me. Can’t nobody stop me. I ain’t takin a dime from you!”
“Right. All right,” Vy said. “That’s all I can say. You done come up against the truth, Tree. Here’s some more, so you best listen.
“I make one hundred and eighty dollars a week,” Vy stated. “I spend fifty for food in this house, not counting clothing and household necessities and electricity and gas and water.”
“You be glad, it’s less now, Dab be dead,” Tree whispered. Vy heard her but went on.
“I pay two hundred a month subsidized rent on this place and a hundred fifty on the business storefront. I pay one hundred fifty a month in car payments. All of it has to come outa nine thousand five hundred dollars a year.”
“What do Silversmith pay?” Tree asked.
“He pay the other half of the business, plus the stove, plus his son’s education, and a lot more.
“So I ain’t got the time for a month of mourning. I can’t afford it, Tree. This is poor folks’ reality; black reality, you want give it a title. Dab is dead. No pretty funeral gone bring him home again. Dab is dead! He don’t give a hoot what his socks look like. He don’t care what the box look like he buried in. He dead, Tree! Dead!”
“I hate your ugly, cheap face,” Tree said. “One day,” she cried, “you gone die, and I’ll remember this day!” She walked out and went to her room. She locked the door and put her chair under the doorknob. But neither M’Vy nor Silversmith came to bother her.
Tree sobbed as though her heart were breaking. Her world had crumbled. All that she had loved and cherished was gone, one way or another. She fell across the bed, crying, and lay that way for what seemed hours. Minutes at a time, she became still, resting. Then she would be racked with crying, hurting. But, slowly, she began to concentrate on getting out of the house.
She listened. Someone had opened and closed the front door. Silversmith, probably, she thought. Maybe leaving.
She got up, quickly taking in her room. She went to the closet and looked at all her clothes. In back of her clothes on the closet floor, she found a cloth bag on wheels. She had sometimes used it to carry a bag of groceries for M’Vy. It zipped at the top. She could fill it with her clothes. At once, she started. She emptied some sweaters, a few short-sleeved shirts and her underwear into the bag. It held more than it looked like it would. She put two pairs of warm pajamas in, and her socks, stuffing them down the sides. What little makeup she had she put on top with her comb and brush.
Where’m I to put my blue jeans and shoes? There were two pairs of shoes she wanted to take—a pair of good Nikes and her Sporto duck shoes. They were dark blue, and they would keep her feet dry in the rain. She listened. She could hear dripping outside her window, but no steady rain. She took the time to open the window and look out. Misty, wet streets.
Hope it stay dry for a while, she thought. No lightning, please. Glumly she stared out. What a time to die, when the weather so bad, she thought. She choked up; wiping her eyes, she turned back to her work. Studying the situation, she found what she needed and pulled a sheet and pillow case off the bed. She dropped her shoes and her schoolbooks, papers, down the case. She placed it on the sheet and began taking jeans from the closet.
I can’t take it all, she thought. But if I keep the house key, I can come back for what’s left. She took three pairs of jeans. And looked at the dresses she had. She had two oxford shirts that were like new, and she took both of them. She couldn’t make her mind up about the dresses.
I’ll wear one to the funeral. “Which one?” she moaned. She sat down again and covered her eyes. “Where’m I gone go!” She couldn’t think of one place to go. She knew kids left home all the time. She’d seen kids hanging on the street way late. She heard the news; saw the TV specials on runaways.
Whyn’t they ever do some special on runaway, scared-away fathers? All time pickin on the kids. Either a drug-and teen-age-prostitution special or a runaway-kid special. Shoot. What about all us who stay and hold down everythang? Where’d Ken, my dad, run away to? I could go live wit him, if I just knew where. I wouldn’t know where to begin.
Still, she folded her clothes neatly on the sheet and tied it up securely, reasoning she would come back for one of the dresses and her dress shoes when it was time for Dab’s funeral. Finished, she placed the bundle on the floor by her bed. She lay down again. Tense muscles jerked, relaxing.
I got to calm down. How’m I gone go anyplace, if I can’t think where to go? So just calm down. You got to wait, make sure M’Vy has left. Then, go to the kitchen and see about some food and how much money she leave. She say she will leave it. If she don’t, I’ll take what’s stashed. Better take it all. I ain’t no thief, but I have to have money for a room, and until I can find me a job. School. If I can go, I will. But if I work all day, school have to wait. Who’ll miss me there? Nobody. Only maybe Miss Noirrette. Nobody else care about me.
Tree was hungry, but she went on thinking, planning, until she had relaxed enough to become sleepy. She slept. She awoke once, hearing a door close. She should have gotten up; instead, she slept a long while, exhausted.
When at last she got up, it was almost midnight. She wasn’t surprised. She had been so tired. The house was quiet. She listened for a long time; thought she heard voices. Must have been a television somewhere. She turned out the light, listening at the door, which she opened a few inches. She stood looking out. In the next five minutes, she heard no movement, no sound in the apartment. M’Vy must have gone. Tree went to the kitchen. The fluorescent light over the sink was on, as always. It was enough light to see the table and that M’Vy had left some bills, a note.
Fifteen dollars! So cheap. How far can I go on just fifteen dollars?
She remembered the money stashed in back of the refrigerator and behind the stove. She took it all.
Think that’s it. She couldn’t recall any more stash.
I was gettin low when M’Vy come. Let’s see. That’s thirty-five dollars. Well, it what I got, so it have to do.
She read the note: “Tree. The funeral is Friday at eleven o’clock.” There was an address of a funeral parlor downtown. She could have cried but she was too angry. “Tree, I have done all I can. Silversmith will pick you up on Friday.”
Pick me up, nothin! I’ll go by myself, shoot. But you will pay for this someday, M’Vy!
Tree heard something. She pressed her hands on the table and listened. Somebody, something, doing something.
In Dab’s room. No! Yeah. Yeah, it is. Tryin to walk quiet. Openin up the drawers. Who it is—M’Vy? What she doin, foolin in his room? Make her get out of his room! Tree cried inside. But what if it’s Dab! Can he come back, the way Rush come back? Come to haunt me? Oh! Dab, don’t do that. Don’t do that. I can’t stand no more.
She was shaking again. She waited until the shivering fear eased. She was weak from hunger. She stared at the refrigerator. Her head began to throb.
I’m so tired. I’m so scared!
Almost resignedly, she left the kitchen to find out what was going on in Dab’s room. When she got there, the door was closed tight. There was light shining under the door; not a mysterious light at all. Slowly she closed her fingers around the doorknob, carefully turned it and flung the door open.
It was not Dab. It was not M’Vy pulling faded clothes out of two bulging shopping bags. It was not Silversmith, or his son, or Brother Rush, who straightened up, with garments clutched in both hands.
I don’t believe it. Tree couldn’t believe her eyes. “What you doin here! Who sent you here! Get out! Get outa Dab’s room, you old biddy!”
Miss Ole Lady Pricherd. Miss old hag. Cenithia Pricherd who came to clean on Saturdays.
“You get outa my brother’s room—what you think you doin!”
Tree was shaking and gasping. Her lips trembled, and her face felt like
it was breaking into little pieces. How could she get the old lady to leave if she was going to cry all the time? The next moment Tree was sobbing uncontrollably, hands covering her wet, slobbery face. She was a disgrace. She couldn’t do anything right.
Miss Pricherd came to her. “I ain’t taken nothing. I ain’t here to hurt you or nothin.” She touched Tree lightly on the shoulder. Tree jerked away. Miss Pricherd persisted; before Tree knew it, she had let the old lady put her arms around her. Couldn’t find the strength to stop her.
“Listen, you Muh Vy ask me to come move in here, take care of things for you. And she got everythang else to do, and work. She not feelin too good, either. Got too much weight on her. I tole her, it look good on her, but bein a little less big gone ease up the heart.”
How you know anything, you old fool! Tree couldn’t stop crying. M’Vy was too much for her, moving Miss Pricherd in before Dab was good and cold.
“Now. Now,” Miss Pricherd said. “Come on now. Lemme take you in the living room.” She guided Tree down the hall. “You ben through so much, you muh tole me how you done so much. But I’m here. I can do a lot fer you. I’m just happy to be here. I got a place to stay!”
They were in the living room, and Tree peeked through her hands at Miss Pricherd. Miss Pricherd sat her down on the couch. She had on a white apron and a white dress, and white shoes.
“How … how … c-c … come you … dress so clean?” Tree managed to say between sucking in air. Her tears were subsiding. She was moaning a little, but the tears had run out.
“You muh give this to me,” Miss Pricherd said, all excited. “I taken a bath in there fore I put it on. Don’t worry, I clean up everythang good. You muh give me two of these little uniforms for me to wear. She say it gives me some clothes and shows the folks in the building I belong here. I ain’t no bag lady. I works here and I lives here.”
Sweet Whispers, Brother Rush Page 16