In one motion, I lifted his shirt over his head, let him tear my dress, pressed my body against his, and I crawled up him ’til my legs were tethered around his waist; my backside seated in his hands. His trousers fell away.
I let go of my grip around him, rested my feet gently on the ground, his hand cupped between my legs, my pantaloons the only barrier between us. He tore up their seams, from my knees to the crotch, slid his thumb along the ridge of the torn material at the top of my thighs, dragged what was left of it, over to the side, feeling me wet. I wanted him to touch me again.
His weight on my body was light, his kisses like bites. He ran two fingers between my legs and inside me, tapped my warm spot in short pulses. Felt myself engorge.
My hips found his, surrounded him inside me, his size stretching me to my potential. Suddenly, a pure pleasure paralyzed me and I clinched down around him, my eyes wide, my body releasing everything in this world that’s lovely.
I let it happen once more. And again. The third time, we finished together, rocking in each other’s laps.
I fold the diary closed and say to Cynthia, “I’m sorry.”
“Did you get to July, yet?” she say. “I was six years old.”
“I’ve read enough.”
“Just read July.”
“No . . . that’s all right.”
“July,” she say, nudging the book.
I open it again, slump down in my seat, flip through the pages.
8 July 1825
Dear Diary,
More and more my good husband has remarked that our child doesn’t favor him—But of course not, she looks like me, I tell him. At seven years old, her features are still developing.
I don’t think he believes me.
He spent most of last month with varying versions of the same accusation. “We all look alike in my family,” he said. “Men in my family can only have boys.” So I asked him who he thought his sister belonged to? He slapped me—deservingly—I told him I meant that anything was possible and maybe being out here, detached from our community, has put us both on edge.
I think my good husband prefers to keep me isolated. Only in the fall does he allow me to go into the heart of Charles Towne, the nearest temple, for the Days of Awe and occasionally to teach children in return for good favors from the congregation. He is committed that way—he is. But otherwise, he manages his hidden affairs out of their sights, except in those days when he allows everyone to see I am fine.
Today, he told me our child has an “independent spirit” like no woman in his family. I told him, maybe she has mine. But that only confused him because he does not know me. Not even after nineteen years. He thinks he does, but he does not.
Then yesterday, he asked me the question that prompted this entry. “Why in thirteen years of trying had you never been pregnant before? Or since?”
I told him I’d prayed and he should not question a gift that God has seen fit to give.
He stopped asking questions.
I close the book again, this time for good, and hand it back to Cynthia, say, “It must’ve been hard for you not knowing your daddy. White folks tend to know.”
“You’re missing the point,” Cynthia say, opening the diary to the back pages and pulling out a loose piece of folded paper. She unfolds it and hands it to me but I won’t take it. I tell her, “I won’t read no more.”
She draws it back in and starts reading out loud. “‘Seventeenth of September, Eighteen Hundred and Thirty.’ I was eleven.”
Dear Diary,
I am writing to you on this piece of torn-out paper because the good husband found you. He was sitting in the outhouse, taking too long, when I found it missing. He had been reading page after page of my life, taking the shortcuts to secrets he has not bothered to learn from me. Thank God he started from the beginning, our fifth anniversary. When I ripped it away from him he only knew enough to ask, “Who’s this rag salesman? And what happened when he came to our door worth writing about?”
I ran away with my book and buried it under the house. But by then, it may have been too late. Things began to come together in his mind—the date, the birth of my beautiful baby girl.
Our anger was equal at first—mine and the good husband’s. His, for what he was almost sure I did years ago, and my anger because he stole something so personal to me. The only difference between us was his hate was unimaginable. So when he said to me two weeks ago, “This girl is not mine, is she?” I should have corrected him immediately, kept up my lie, been forthright about it. But I did not. I took pause.
In the second and a half that it took me to tell him he was mistaken, it was too late. He struck me. And though I lied again, it was my pause that he believed.
I was blind when the beating ended. And in the midst of it, I did not expect to survive. He nursed me to health over the course of a week. But I still do not expect to survive.
I’m leaving him tonight.
Cynthia flips the page over, keeps reading. “‘First of November. My Dearest Leah. I have tried and failed. If we never make it away from your father, I want you to know the truth. You are my daughter whom I will love until the end of time. You must know that you came from a moment of beauty, my first and only moment of such. I do not regret you but I regret what you have suffered because of me.
“‘Dearest Leah. I hate myself for what my selfishness has caused. And now, for not being strong enough to protect you, brave enough to leave.’”
Cynthia folds the note, slips it back inside the diary. “Leah,” Cynthia say. “I hadn’t heard my name since I was a girl.” She relaxes back on the bench, holds the diary on her lap.
“Point is,” she say. “It’s not who my daddy was. It’s who he wasn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“This book got a whole page dedicated to ‘sorry.’ Not really good enough, is it?”
She stands and stretches out her hand to me like she want me to shake it.
“I’m a different woman now, Naomi. I want you to know that. I’m different because I understand her. I forgive her. Forgive myself. And I know what I got to do for Johnny. For you.”
She reaches her hand out to me again. “You’re gonna need somewhere to have this baby. Come back to the house with me. It’s safe. Plenty room for all us. Let me help you bring this baby into the world.”
“And Albert?”
“This ain’t no place to have a baby, Naomi. All this soot. Full of smoke. That can’t be good for a new baby to breathe. Its lungs. Might get a breathing condition. So even if you don’t want to come live with me for yourself, maybe you need to for the baby. What does Albert know about the labor of babies?”
“He needs my help.”
“He’s already healed and needs to let you go. Sometimes you have to tell your friends that this is where I stop on this road with you. And if they really care about you, they’ll tell you thank you for coming this far and let that be the end of it.”
“Then let this be the end of it for us,” I say. “I won’t leave without Albert.”
“Then bring him,” she say. “If Albert chooses, he can make a room for himself in the attic so he’ll be close to you but still have his own space.” She pauses, then laughs, “I guess y’all love birds now?”
I don’t answer.
“You’ll have to earn your keep,” she say. “Serve in the saloon or something ’til the baby comes. Can’t let people think I’m soft.”
“Will I get my own room?”
“You can have Bernadette’s.”
“Can I go out when I please?”
“Just don’t tell nobody I said so.”
42 / 1869
Tallassee, Alabama
I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S worse: living in fear or dying. Before two weeks ago when George met Rachel, I would’ve said fear and only dying if the dying didn’t last long. But now, I just say death.
I’ve been waiting and watching over Squiggy and Rachel, hoping for G
eorge to redeem hisself for better ’cause I have no choice. If Bessie’s consequence is true, I cain’t square in my mind not being here to see my grandchildren grow. To see Josey, a mother like me, grow. I can’t end myself after all we been through. They need me. Even this way. ’Cause sometimes, just being there for somebody, wordless and present, is enough.
A few days ago, I think Sissy understood that, too.
She found a body floating dead in the stream. She’d gone down to fetch a bucket of muddied water ’cause dirty water is good enough for the crops, not good enough for drinking. The drought make it hard on everybody. That, and the war, end of war, and the new war west. New freedom. So bodies have been leaving Tallassee for years. And not everybody make it out alive. But something about this dead body spooked Sissy.
Her screaming is what brought us all out.
Josey went to her right away, leaving her children in the house but I got there first. Saw the body shifting in place on top of a bed of loose rock and water. It looked like a log at first. The body. But the smell was worser than the shit of two sick stomachs.
About three days the body had been there, I’d guess. It belonged to an old woman who’d been left behind near a worn path. Sissy kneeled, leaned over it, gasped when she saw the woman’s bloated face. It looked just like Sissy. Coulda been her twin. No further than a cousin in relation. Sisters, maybe. This woman could’ve been her long lost.
“Let’s bury her,” Sissy said to Josey with tears in her eyes. It was those tears that surprised me more than the body. She said, “Shouldn’t nobody die with nobody to bury ’em. And I don’t want to die that way, neither.”
Since Sissy found the body, she’s been helpful to Josey all week. Kind even. “Can I help you with the babies?” she’ll ask. And, “I’ll get that for you,” she’ll say. I swear it frightened Josey the first time. And today, Sissy’s been downright confessional.
“I was wrong about you,” she said. “And I ain’t shamed to say it now. We need each other. Rely on each other. Even if all that means is waking up in the morning knowing somebody familiar is near.”
“You ain’t got to worry about dying, Miss Sissy. Or being alone. We’re family.”
SISSY’S RUSTLING AROUND in Jackson’s old cupboard now. They keep their linens in there now. Sissy hired the sharecroppers’ son months ago to come and put a lock on that cupboard door. She said it was to keep the babies from falling down that hole. But only she has the key to the room. It’s hung around her neck on a string so Josey got to ask every time she need a new cloth to wash with.
Sissy comes out of the cupboard holding a wood chest they keep winter shawls in. She sets it down in the middle of the room and opens it. Inside are full tomatoes, still on a vine, plump carrots, runner beans, and potatoes the size of two fists. I don’t know where she got all this from. Josey’s eyes widened.
“I don’t know why I kept it from you,” Sissy say. She leaves her box next to Josey and shuffles over to the rocker, sits in it, and pushes into short swings. She closes her eyes like she praying.
Josey sorts through the box, puts one onion and one potato on the cutting board. Ties her apron around her waist before she takes her knife to dice them. “The world is changing, Miss Sissy,” Josey say. “Even for us. And look at all this goodness. This is what matters.”
“Perspective,” Sissy say. “It’s God’s gift to the dying. And when I saw that dead woman, I think I got hers. I used to have people,” she say. “Was married once. Can you believe that? Had good friends. Ms. Annie was one. My best. We used to play together when I was just older than Rachel.”
“You two was friends?” Josey ask.
“Annie treated me better than any of the other slaves . . . always. We got into so much mischief together, found trouble wherever it be. If mudslinging was part of any game, we’d play it first. Her Momma used to come out and say, ‘Annabelle Brown! You don’t have no place in the mud with her.’ A negro and a white. Unnatural how close we was. But nobody could keep us apart. Did a spit handshake to prove we was loyal. Best friends forever.
“Before we knew it, we was women. Sixteen and it was time for us to marry. Annie asked her momma if I could be her help to get her dressed and ready for courting. But Lord knows all we did was gossip and drink her daddy’s stole liquor.
“We both married at the same time, was both trying to get pregnant at the same time, too. Wanted our babies to be best friends like we was. And even when my Paul passed on, I still had hopes for Annie. We were still gon’ have a baby.
“But Annie wasn’t getting pregnant. Months to years, then that knock met our door that night—the evening the night man, Bobby Lee, came to our door.
“You were her prize. She wanted to do everything for you herself. Y’all ate at the table together, she taught you to write at two years old. You was already sewing beads on dresses by then. She’d praise you more than she shoulda, gave you more than she shoulda. Spared the rod even when you was breaking things, knocking things over, couldn’t keep a room clean if you was in it. You were the reason Annie pushed me away. You left me with nothing except Annie’s trust.
“It’s why she listened when I tol’ her what that night man had done to her. I was the one that saved her from kissing that black baby on the mouth. From the ridicule of this world. From them good people that despise nigger-lovers more than sin itself. But it wasn’t them that Annie ended up loathing. It was me. I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at me after I accused you of being a negro. Eventually, she put me out like garbage.
“But I wasn’t gon’ let it end with me . . . no. And I’m sorry for it now. Sorry for what happened to you. ’Cause I’m the one who made sure rumors got spread. Didn’t want to give Annie a chance to lie and hide it. I made her confront what you did to us.
“Her husband Richard had to finish the matter when Annie couldn’t. He gave you away to Charles and soon your memories of Annie got erased. That was Annie’s fear come true. You quit asking for Annie-Momma. You only wanted Charles-Momma to hold you and feed you and teach you. And Annie was heartbroke from being Forgot-Momma. Alone-Momma. But I wasn’t gon’ be alone by myself. And now I got you.”
Sissy stops rocking.
“People need people,” she say.
Josey wipes her hands down her apron. She goes to Sissy and kneels down next to her chair. “If all we got is each other,” Josey say. “Let us be family once and for all.”
43 / FLASH
Conyers, Georgia, 1848
BAND MUSIC WHINES through here for her party. “A celebration!” Cynthia called it. “Bat Mitzvahed!” she said. “My old ass has come of age!”
I think that means it’s her birthday.
For certain it’s a fancy way to have a barbecue.
I imagine a diamond looks like this brothel.
A jewel, clear-white and sparkly. Cynthia took the whole week to clean this room out and wash it down. The thrown-away things she changed for white tablecloths, white candles, sheer white curtains, and the floor shines. We could be on the ring finger of Georgia.
Cynthia’s boy, Johnny, had a real birthday last week. Ten years old. When he saw me from the hall just now, he came running at me like I been gone for days somewhere. He hugged my neck and grabbed my head two-handed, pressed his lips on my cheek and a burst of slobber cooled there.
I love spit kisses.
They’re made by folks with a reckless kinda love inside of ’em.
Cynthia started letting Johnny come in the saloon more often. She said she marking the beginning of their fresh start. But he’s still careful with his permission, it’s why he went after his kiss and I shuffled his red hair.
Cynthia paid a rabbi’s son to teach her Hebrew and give her classes. She said she paid him for every vowel and every letter she learned. Cash money under the table and just between the two of ’em, ’cause girls ain’t supposed to learn. She told Sam she did it ’cause she “Can’t believe this body is all there is to me
. I’m more than what feels good and makes me happy.”
Bullshit is what Sam called it but said he respected her decision anyway. Then reminded her she’s a woman of science.
“Exactly,” she said. “Emphasis on biology. Living’s a disaster with a hundred percent fatalities. None of us survive this. Maybe science should be more interested in known theories of what does. I chose this one.”
She’s completed her courses the way the boys do. It’s why she got her wedding dress on to party in her own honor and only invited the people she like: fifty customers, and less than half her staff. So everybody’s walking in and out here like they special. Chosen.
The ones outside are standing around the barbecue pit looking in it like Jesus is about to rise from the ashes. The only stranger here is the big white man guarding the door, asking Cynthia who can come in and who cain’t.
Bobby Lee and his two cousins have already been by two times. Got kicked out once. It wasn’t a mistake that they never got invitations. When they first came to the door, the guard said, “Cynthia . . .”
She stopped dancing to see who was at the door. That’s when Bobby Lee took his hat off to show her it was him. “Only Bobby Lee can come in,” she said. “This is a private party and his cousins don’t wash their asses. I only want to smell barbecue pieces, not Henry’s creases.”
Since his cousins couldn’t come, too, Bobby Lee wouldn’t, neither. He put his hat back on and turned down the steps while his grumbling cousins put their middle fingers in the air.
Cynthia’s twirling around the dance floor now, grinding her hips like she got something to sell, even though the invitations say her girls ain’t working today. Maybe not ever. So they stand around the room in their party clothes, free.
This piano stool still feels like Jeremy’s spot even though he’s months gone and his piano’s been covered in a white sheet. Cynthia keeps her mail on top of it now and Sam keeps stacking it there, too. Sometimes he try to make her talk about what’s in the unopened envelopes, but she never do. A lot of ’em from the government.
Grace Page 28