by Bill Harris
These people around here are all morons! They don’t know anything, and try to tell me anything—or nothing—they don’t think I know what they’re up to.
Flo 2
“You, boy, who are you?”
“Page.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Do you?”
“Tell me.”
“Essie Nettle Fuller Williams. You’re my grandmother.”
“Oh.”
“That’s okay if you don’t know me, Grams.”
“What was your name, Sweetnums?”
“Page. Page Nettle.”
“—Was there a—Emmie Nettle—?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“—who—made a big name—?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“—somewhere down south?—Acorn!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She here?”
“No ma’am.”
“Sweetnums, don’t you know anybody that’s living?”
Laughing. “Yes, ma’am.”
“This—It must be a movie or TV or something—or am I dreaming? Mama and—my sister used to like going to the movies. Emmie. We were colored. We had to sit upstairs. Was it a movie, is that what it is?”
“Yes ma’am. It’s just a movie. That’s all it is. Don’t even worry about it.”
“What makes you think I’m worried about it?”
“I don’t think you are.”
“Then why you say I was.”
“My mistake.”
“I remember I had men—but I don’t remember their names.”
“Bennie. My grandfather Bennie was one. Benjamin Fuller.”
“It was love both ways—In bed when he rolled over I rolled over. Then he too soon was also taken.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I could get maaaaad! You wouldn’t think it now, huh? It wouldn’t last but a minute, but I meant it while I was—at him especially—
“Most I was ever mad at him was when he had that heart attack—still mad at him for that—can’t help it. Wasn’t his fault, was it? He just worked so hard and loved so hard.
“He died before I was born.”
“It is so goddamn frustrating. When people remind me of things they want me to remember—Like they’re pointing out of a speeding train window, saying, ‘See! See?’ and all I can see is rushing darkness. Is their wanting me to remember for their sake or mine, I wonder?”
“I wonder.”
“Me too.”
“You taught me to forgive, but not forget.”
“I forget everything. And who needs forgiving? Just get mad then get over it. I think I used to get mad at him just so we could make up. He still thought I was sweet as a sugar dumpling.”
“You must’ve been.”
“Must’ve been.”
“Some things people tell me over and over—some things I don’t tell—Emmie never did like boys—she told me but I already knew—people thought it was because—but it wasn’t—that my mama and Emmie are dead—some things I think they don’t tell me at all—what’s the use, must be what they’re thinking. Why put perishable in a refrigerator that won’t keep anything? Or maybe they’re there and I forget to look. And who am I anyway, a fine and feisty young woman, sweet as a sugar dumpling—? It’s so goddamn frustrating—Where do I put the mark to know how to find myself? Tell me your name again, Sweetnums, and don’t get mad at me if I forget it.”
“No ma’am. I know. Page.”
“Page—like in a book?”
“Yes, ma’am. Page Nettle.”
“—Bennie—did you know him?”
“No ma’am. He died before I was born.”
“I guess I don’t know anybody but dead people either.”
“You were telling me about Emmie. Remember?”
“Emmie was my big sister.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We took care of her, didn’t we?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I held her in my arms. Crying. ‘Tell me the stories, Flo,’ she said. ‘Tell me the stories again—’”
“Do you know what she was talking about? I don’t.”
“You knew it when it counted, Grams.”
Afterword
The obvious criticism of course will be that it is not finished—that I have not seen the heroine to the end of her situation—that I have left her en l’air.—This is both true and false. The whole of anything is never told; you can only take what groups together. What I have done has that unity—it groups together. It is complete in itself—and the rest may be taken up or not, later.
Henry James notebook notation