Silver Sparrow

by Tayari Jones

  “No,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  “So,” Dana said to me. “Where does your mother think you are?” She nudged Ronalda with her shoulder. “We are supposed to be in a lock-in at my church.”

  Dana put her hand in her hair and then stopped. She felt her ear. “I lost my earring,” she said.

  Ronalda said, “Nobody move,” like she was looking for a lost contact. Dana’s voice climbed in pitch. “I hope I didn’t lose it on the MARTA.

  They’re my mother’s and her mother gave them to her. Oh my God.”

  Ronalda was on her hands and knees, looking under the love seat. Dana muttered and walked herself in little shaky circles. I got up and ran my hand in the crevices of the sofa. “We’l find it.” I took the cushion off the love seat, even though the ladies working the front desk were looking at us cross-eyed.

  “I don’t see it,” Ronalda said, standing up.

  “Hold on,” I said to Dana. I stepped toward her, lifting her hair from her neck. There, snagged at her neckline, was the hoop earring. I twisted it free and handed it to her. It was antique-looking, like something Grandma Bunny used to wear. The gold was etched with a careful pattern of leaves.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She threaded it though the hole in her ear while Ronalda put the furniture back together.

  I sat back on the little couch, and this time Dana sat by me.

  “You saved my life,” she said.

  I was pleased enough to break into song, but I waved it away.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “So how come you’re here?” Ronalda said.

  “How come y’al are?” I shot back.

  “We tried to get into the party upstairs,” Dana said. “But we got turned away.”

  “Just because we weren’t invited,” Ronalda snorted.

  “I went inside. It wasn’t al that great.”

  “Who was there?”

  “I don’t know. People. Ruth Nicole Elizabeth, her boyfriend Marcus.”

  Ronalda sucked her teeth and Dana tapped her fingers against her cheek.

  Dana said, “So you and Ruth Nicole Elizabeth are friends?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I been knowing her since kindergarten and she didn’t even invite me.”

  “She lives down the street from me,” Ronalda said.

  “She sits next to me in calculus,” Dana said.

  “So,” Ronalda said. “If you’re not here for the party, then how come you’re here?”

  “I’m working,” I said. “My dad has a limo company. We’re handling transport for Ruth Nicole Elizabeth and her family.”

  “You can drive a limousine?” Ronalda asked.

  “I can, but I’m not. I’m an attendant.” I spoke to her slowly, like she didn’t speak English.

  “Your dad is here?” This was from Dana.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You two want to go outside and see the cars?”

  Ronalda spoke up. “No, we are not into al of that.” She stood and held out her hand. Dana took it and pul ed herself up from the sofa. “We got to go.”

  “Wait,” I said, scrambling up. “Dana, you never did make your appointment for your wash-and-set. You want to come in on Tuesday?”

  “No,” she said, doing a quick look-around to make sure she wasn’t leaving anything. “I can only come on a Wednesday.”

  “Bye,” I cal ed as Ronalda pul ed my silver girl away. It was like a Shakespeare play; they just sort of vanished into the wings, with Dana watching me over her shoulder.

  I got back in the elevator and rode down to the parking garage. Uncle Raleigh and Daddy were leaning against the hood of the Town Car, passing a single cigarette back and forth like a joint.

  “Is that party almost done with? Me and Raleigh are running out of smokes.”

  “They’l be out soon,” I said.

  Something in my voice made my daddy turn his attention from the shared cigarette to me. “What’s the matter, Buttercup?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s something,” Uncle Raleigh said.

  “I just don’t have any friends,” I said. “I know people or whatever, but who’s my best friend? Who’s going to invite me to their Sweet Sixteen and let me ride in the limo with them?” I covered my face with my cake-sticky hands. My father and Uncle Raleigh looked at one another. It would have been funny to an onlooker. Their confusion had a sitcom quality, like two men who are forced to see to a woman that’s going into labor.

  “F-f-forget about them,” my daddy said. “Our party is going to be ten times bigger than this. And we won’t invite Ruth, Nicole, or Elizabeth.”

  “And we are going to charge them time and a half for al this extra time they got us sitting out here,” Uncle Raleigh said.

  Daddy said, “Goddamn right.”

  18

  LOVE AND HAPPINESS

  ON OCTOBER 18, 1974, when a real y pissed-off black woman flung a pot of hot grits on Al Green, her hair was freshly pressed and curled by none other than my mama. As a result of our little brush with Negro history, nobody made Al Green jokes in our house, or even in the Pink Fox, where you can imagine a lot of women fantasized about taking revenge on a lying man. I think the women liked the story not just because of the drama of it, but because grits were the weapon of choice. The boiling cereal reminded them of being stuck in a hot kitchen, poor and barefoot in the days before they had even heard of waffles or hol andaise sauce. That girl, whatever her name was, took the entire state of Mississippi and used it to kick somebody’s ass. Al you had to do was say “Al Green” and “grits” in the same conversation and the titter of laughing started, but my mama cut it off with a quiet “That’s not funny.” You couldn’t hear it in her voice, but if you looked at her face, at the way she closed her eyes and tucked her head down like she was in prayer, you knew that she was serious.

  The woman who did it was named Mary. The Atlanta Journal said her family name was Sanford while Jet magazine cal ed her Woodson. She told my mother she was visiting Atlanta for a few days in order to attend an AME Usher Board convention. Even before she noticed Mary’s cross pendant — simple, the jewelry equivalent of two sticks tied together — Mama knew that the woman was saved. Even after what happened next, Mama said she never doubted that Mary had come to Jesus. The truly saved don’t have to go around talking about it. They just have this quietness about them like they know exactly where they’re going.

  Mary walked in on a Tuesday evening, opening the door at seven thirty, after Mama had finished her last customer of the night. As a matter of fact, Mama was untying her apron and switching off the gas under the irons when Mary crossed the threshold, looking like a kindergarten teacher at the end of a long day. She wore a pink pantsuit, stylish, but the topstitching on the pockets gave away that it was homemade. Mama said she wil never forget that face, smooth as a brown egg, no lines or crinkles, like she had never laughed or cried in her whole entire life.

  THIS WAS NOT a good night for a late customer. My mama wasn’t al that steady on her feet, as this was her first ful week of work after her gal bladder operation. These days they can do the whole thing with lasers and make only a little hole in your bel y button, but in 1974 the doctors had to cut you open, straight down the middle, gut you like a fish. Mama was laid up for two weeks, and during that time Grandma Bunny came down to see about her. When Mary came into the shop, Grandma Bunny was only two days gone back to Ackland. To make matters worse, I had come down with a cold and a touch of fever. In the corner of the shop, I dozed fitful y on a pal et, coughing and whimpering in my sleep. Besides, it was time for Mama to change the bandage on her wound.

  “Do you take walk-ins?” Mary asked. “I know you are likely closing up, but maybe you can find it in your heart to help me?”

  Although it was only a couple weeks into October, something put my mother in the mind of Christmas. Maybe it was just as simple as the name Mary, but Mama felt that God wou
ld want her to take this stranger in. “I’m not wel , but I might could help you,” my mother said. “Depending on what you need.”

  “I’l tip you good,” Mary said, sitting in the chair like my mother had already said yes. She pul ed half a dozen bobby pins out of her scrawny bun and unwrapped a red rubber band that came away clotted with hair. “Thank you. And God bless you.”

  Mama got Mary into the shampoo bowl, and half her hair lay down straight and docile under the faucet. That’s what happens when you have been getting hard presses for more than twenty years. Some of the kink just gets lost.

  “Can I talk to you?” Mary asked my mother.

  “Of course,” Mama said. “Nobody in here but us.”

  “I’m leaving my husband,” she said. “We’re not equal y yoked.” Mary, like my mother, had married young. Mama didn’t say anything one way or another. She just combed through Mary’s half-nappy hair, sectioning it off and plaiting it up to dry.

  “The Bible says your mate got to be your equal. Y’al have to both love the Lord in the same way.” Mary’s voice was calm and steady.

  It was warm for October, so Mama had the door propped open to let the breeze in. She could smel burning leaves. “You have children?”

  Mary said she had three, but they would be al right with their father. The Lord, she said, had cal ed her to another man. They were going to the minister together. This new man was going to take some working on, some praying over, but the Lord was inside him. She could feel it burning through his skin. This boyfriend, Mary said, was chosen. “You ever touch the hand of a preacher that is truly righteous? That has healing in his hands? You know how it’s like he empties out your body and just fil s you up with spirit?”

  Mama nodded her head, because she had met a preacher like that years ago, when she was stil a girl in Ackland. This was just after the baby boy died and she was wandering around looking for somewhere to go. This preacher that touched my mother was a child, a little girl, black as a cast-iron skil et, with a nurse’s cap pinned over her short hair. My mother was walking by, struggling with a basket of laundry, when this girl preacher grabbed her by the arm; Mama felt herself hol owed out and fil ed with light. The little-girl preacher held a white leather Bible in her dark hand. “Wil you pray with me, sister?” My mama said she didn’t have time, although she was warm from the child’s touch. “Are white people’s dirty drawers more important than your soul, sister? Come to me,” the little girl said. “Get on your knees with me.” My mother looked over her shoulder. They were standing in front of the colored high school, where Raleigh and James were in class. Mama could imagine the home ec teacher looking at her out of the window and seeing her kneeling in the street with this pickaninny preacher and the basket of laundry beside her. “I can’t,” Mama said. “I just can’t.” The little girl said, “That’s pride. Give me your hand, sister. Your vanity is your burden. Lay it down. Let me touch your soul.” My mama extended her hand, greedy for another dose of that touch. The child squeezed my mother’s hand. “You don’t have to get on your knees. He can touch your heart while you are on your own two feet.” My mama says her legs just gave out under her and she was on her knees in the road and that little girl stroked Mama’s face and talked to Jesus while my mama sobbed. “Ask the Lord to take care of my baby,” Mama begged the girl. “He’l take care of you, too,” the girl said, and with every caress of her tiny hands my mother felt her spirit mend.

  “YES,” MY MAMA told Mary. “I have been touched by an anointed preacher. Just one time.”

  “This man I got,” Mary said. “He sings. No matter what he’s singing, he’s got God in him. People come to hear him and start crying. They think he is crooning about love between a man and a woman, worldly love, but what he’s doing is making them feel the Jesus. He’s a miracle. We are going to build a ministry together.”

  On my pal et, I woke up sweating and confused. I sat up and cal ed for my mother. I cal ed for her with a sound like a frightened question, as

  though it was the middle of the night and I was al alone.

  “I’m here, baby,” Mama said to me. “Lie back down, okay.” To Mary she explained. “She woke up with a fever this morning. I’ve been giving her aspirin.”

  “Ginger ale is good, too,” Mary said. “If you have some fresh ginger, grate some of that in the glass. She won’t like it, but it’l help.”

  I cal ed for my mother with a voice ful of tears. She set the hot comb down and walked over to me, but didn’t bend down to hold me. I stood up and grabbed her around the legs.

  “Mary,” Mama said. “Can you help me? I’ve been operated on. I can’t lift her.”

  “Where’s your husband?” Mary asked, walking over to me.

  “If she won’t let you hold her, don’t be hurt,” Mama said. “Sometimes she doesn’t cotton to new people.”

  “I love children,” Mary said. “I have three. Two girls, a boy. I miss them. But you got to do what the Lord cal s you to do.” She reached for me and I released my mother’s knees and held out my arms. I was big for my age, but she lifted me easily. “She’s got a little bit of a temperature,” Mary said to my mother. The story is that she held me in her lap like I was a little baby although I was nearly five years old. I just rested my head on her breast, sweating a dark spot onto her pink lapel.

  After Mama finished pressing Mary’s hair, she smoothed it with a boar-bristle brush. Mary’s fine hair crackled with static; ghost strands stood up on their own and danced.

  “It’s not just lust when we’re together.” Mary twisted in the chair and searched my mother’s face.

  Mama said, “I know.”

  • • •

  MARY DIDN’T WANT the curls combed out, since she was going to have to ride the bus eight hours to Memphis and she needed her hair to be fresh when she got there. She took Mama’s address, writing the street number on a folded index card pul ed from the bottom of her purse. “I am going to write to you when I get everything set up. You’l have to come to meet him. You need to feel that healing touch again. My man is true,” she said. “True as the Word.”

  When she was done, Mama didn’t even want to take her money, so Mary tucked the twenty-dol ar bil in the little pocket of my dress. Mama didn’t notice because of al the commotion I caused when Mary tried to leave. She set me down and headed toward the door and I threw a fit. “Don’t go,” I said over and over, grabbing for Mary’s legs. Mama was so embarrassed that she forgot her condition and bent to pul me away. The pain caught her by surprise and she staggered a little bit. Mary picked me up again and kissed my feverish little face. “Jesus loves you,” she said. “And you, too, Laverne. You just have to trust and believe.” Mary rubbed my back in easy circles while I watched my mother from over her shoulder, holding on so hard that Mama felt a little jealous.

  Just then, Daddy came into the shop, with Uncle Raleigh close behind carrying a bucket of chicken.

  “W-what’s going on here,” he said, reaching for me. He had to pul me away because I refused to unhook my arms. “L-let her go.” He yanked so hard that I started to cry.

  Mama was embarrassed. “There’s nothing wrong,” she said. “She was just helping me out because my stitches are hurting me.”

  “Good-bye, Laverne,” Mary said. “Don’t let this trouble you none. I’l be seeing you again.”

  When the door clapped shut behind her, my daddy leaned to kiss my face, but pul ed back as a shock hurt his lip.

  They fought over it, my parents did. Mama complained at the dinner table, trying to eat the chicken Daddy and Uncle Raleigh had brought. “You just don’t want me to have a friend,” Mama said. “Why did you treat her like that?”

  “You didn’t see her face,” Daddy said. “There was something wild in her face.”

  Mama wiped her eyes with the cheap paper napkin from the chicken place. “I need to take a pil . I don’t feel wel .”

  Uncle Raleigh got up to find her a glass of water. Daddy said, “You
can’t take codeine on an empty stomach. Eat your dinner.”

  “The doctor said no fried foods. I told you that.”

  “I’m sorry, Verne,” Daddy said. “Do you want me to fix you a sandwich?”

  “I just hate the way you treated her,” Mama said. “How often do I get to have a friend?”

  ABOUT THREE WEEKS LATER, Daddy came home early on a Wednesday. He walked into the shop while my mama was trying to do three heads at once. Somebody was holding me, but Daddy didn’t pay it any mind.

  “Laverne, can I talk to you for a second?” he said.

  My mama wasn’t in the middle of any chemical procedures, so she went outside and sat with Daddy on the porch. “What is it? Is Miss Bunny okay? Raleigh?”

  “Nothing like that,” he said. “I was just wondering. That woman that came in late that night, the one in the pink?”

  “Mary,” Mama said. “Mary was her name.”

  “I saw her picture in Jet, ” Daddy said, handing my mother the folded-back page. “She was the one that threw hot grits on Al Green. I told you she was crazy.”

  Mama looked at the article, tracing the words, moving her lips as she read what happened in Memphis just one night after Mary left our shop.

  “What did he do to her?” Mama said.

  “What did he do to her? She threw a pot of hot grits on the man when he was getting out of the bathtub and you want to know what he did to her?”

  “Oh, Mary,” Mama said.

  “Black women,” Daddy said. “Y’al know y’al is crazy when you don’t get your way.”

  “Oh, Mary,” Mama said again. “Oh, girl.”

  This is not a story my mama tel s often. To her, it’s not just gossip, it’s something closer to gospel. One late night Mama was fixing up a girl who was half bald on the left side from snatching at her own head. She opened her mouth to show Mama where she clamped her jaw so tight that she busted one of her molars. While Mama rubbed Magical Grow in the bald places until her naked scalp shone like it was wet, she shared the story of Mary.

  “You listening, baby?” Mama said. “When you love a man that much, it’s time to let him go.”