both lived through and my mama told me what they all lived
through and we were suppose to pass it down like that from generation to generation so we’d never forget.
—Gayl Jones, Corregidora
For if this story is to be told, we will have to put them
all back inside each other like Russian dolls.
—Zadie Smith, White Teeth
Ten
skin folk and kin folk
I’ve often thought that being a
light-skinned Black woman is like being
a well-dressed person who is also homeless.
—Zinzi Clemmons, What We Lose
If you are born in America with a black skin,
you’re in prison.
—Malcolm X
Cornelius had achieved his own title of sorts when the photograph was taken. They stood stoically. Eve’s mother, Mercy, stood slightly apart from the group. Unbeknownst to her, the tiny fetal formations of Eve were occurring within her stomach. It would be the last picture in which Mercy would appear and, ultimately, their final family picture. Before their mother, Gertrude, dreamed of fish. Before they found out about the pregnancy. Before Mercy ran off. Before Eve was born and Mercy died. The choices of everyone in the picture had already set these events in motion by the time the photographer pressed the button and the flashbulb popped.
Cornelius’s own decisions, which would turn him into a ruler of sorts, began in 1920 when he was just a boy living with his grandmother. He suffered from trying to hang on to his own memories of the erased, often waking in the early-morning hours soaked in sweat and trying frantically to cling to the pale woman who disappeared with his dreams, leaving only her razor-sharp words: Black nigga. The dream occurred fairly frequently but irregularly. Sometimes it would stay away for months. Other times it hounded him nightly for weeks. He hadn’t had it since the beginning of summer, and it was quickly approaching fall. But after rummaging around in the shed and finding a box crammed into a corner in the way of things meant to be forgotten, the dream beckoned.
Cornelius slept on a floor pallet in the one-and-a-half-room shanty he shared with his grandmother. Her own bed towered a few feet away. Against the wall, the fading embers of a wood-burning stove warmed the small space. His grandmother claimed that his mother hadn’t left so much as a shoestring behind when she ran off with “that yella nigga from New Orleans,” but the box told a different story. He slowly shifted his weight and turned slightly on his side, peeking at the sleeping mound just an arm’s length away. Satisfied that his grandmother still slept, Cornelius slid his thin fingers into one of the large sacks that formed his mattress and snaked his hand through the hay inside until it closed around the smooth wooden handle. Keeping his eyes trained on the pallet across the floor, he carefully withdrew the brush from beneath him and laid it on his chest. He gingerly fingered the silken hairs still trapped within its bristles and absently reached up to pluck at the woolen mass atop his own head. The sun began to creep upward and enter the house through the small cracks in the roof. It lit the white bristles of the brush and the fine hairs it held. The colors of the quilt folded around him became alive, but the darkness of his hand did not go away. He didn’t mind it, but his mother hadn’t been able to get past it by the time he was three years old.
His mother Luella was a lighter complexion, and his grandmother Ida Mae, whom he called Grandmere, was lighter still. The moniker—French for grandmother—and her skin tone bore testament to the genealogy of Macon County and its various inhabitants. Language also migrated, and words like grandmère leapt into the mouths of African slaves taking refuge and intermarrying with Creek Indian tribes. Grandmere lost its accent on the tongues of Black Americans who would later fight for recognition from Native American leagues.
Ida Mae had always considered her complexion more trouble than it was worth. She did not like the attention it brought from men—Black and white alike—nor the distrust it instilled in women. She wore her long hair braided and wrapped into a tight bun at the base of her skull. She married the darkest man she could find and prayed to have Black baby boys. When her daughter Luella was born, she kept a careful watch over her and prayed that Luella could enjoy her childhood before male attention infringed upon it. But to Ida Mae’s chagrin, something far worse occurred. Luella’s own desire was ignited much earlier than anticipated. She welcomed the attention far too soon, and Ida Mae found herself to be a grandmere and raising Cornelius alone in 1920.
“’Nelius, if you wanna eat, then I spec’ you best gits to dem eggs,” she spoke from her bed into the stillness of the room.
“Yes’m,” Cornelius muttered and shoved the brush back into the sack. Cornelius slid from the pallet and into a pair of overalls over his skivvies. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he shoved his feet into boots, grabbed the tin bucket by the door, and exited. Outside he paused and sighed deeply before trudging through the mud-caked path toward the outhouse. Once he relieved himself, he continued on the path as the brush became slightly denser until he reached the well. He filled the bucket and enjoyed a cool drink before returning to the house.
The routine they shared was well established. He deposited the bucket inside the door and returned outside to collect eggs from the chicken coop. Ida Mae bathed in his absence and began preparing breakfast—usually fried ham, biscuits, and eggs upon his return. While she finished breakfast, he bathed. They completed their chores with their backs turned to one another, the only privacy the small shack afforded.
They usually ate in silence with the sporadic interruption of Ida Mae’s humming. She hummed pieces of church music. Sometimes her speech was even punctuated with humming between sentences. There was much that Cornelius could ask her, but he’d learned years ago not to question her and still had the mark on his forehead from the cast-iron skillet that had ended his inquiries about his mother, unknown father, and absent grandfather. It was the only time she had struck him. She’d spent the hours afterward crying, rocking him in her arms, and praying for the two of them. Every night, she insisted that he speak his prayers aloud and that he include, word for word, his “crazy mammy and that no ’count, yella nigga that she run off with.”
When the colored school was open—during the brief winter season, when the crops were withered and covered in frost—he attended to learn his numbers and letters. When it closed, during the planting and harvesting seasons, he continued to use what he’d learned in weighing their surplus goods and bartering them with neighbors or selling them in town to white folks, which he hated. For them, the prices lowered, as well as his eyes. “Don’t look ’em in the face,” Ida Mae admonished.
“Why, Grandmere?”
“’Cuz dey always thinkin’ we puttin’ some kind of root on ’em,” she tsked.
“Can we put one on them?”
“Hush yo’ mouf, boy!” She gasped, but he had seen the small smile play on her lips.
There was no school now, not for the colored anyway. So after breakfast, Cornelius was allowed to run off into the woods.
“G’won git, boy. I don’t know how you spec’ to become a man in dis house watchin’ me clean up after you,” Ida Mae nudged him toward the door. “Check make sure dat mare ain’t get out from the fence.”
“Yes’m,” he replied, flying out the door. In addition to raising Cornelius, Ida Mae’s second-largest focus was on containing the mule. It was fairly large for its breed, the sterile offspring of a horse and donkey. She had named it after her daughter, Luella, and insisted that Cornelius check on it several times throughout the day.
Cornelius reached the small fenced area and slid to a halt. There was no mule in sight. The gate was slightly ajar, and Cornelius hoped that she hadn’t gotten far. Following the trail of hoofprints perfectly preserved in the mud, he trotted again in the direction of the well.
“Lou!” he shouted for her, hoping that she would
return on her own. Reaching the well, he faltered. The tracks grew dull where the ground hardened and brush took over. He scanned the area, his eyes stopped where the tree line began. There was a slight rustle. Cornelius shot toward it and was rewarded with a sight of the horse’s rear end. But Lou was not alone. A figure was slung over her broad back.
“Hey!” Cornelius shouted. “What you doin’ with my horse?”
Slowly the figure rose to a full sitting position and tugged gently at the reins encouraging Lou to a full stop. Cornelius heard a slight tongue click and saw the figure yank the reins to the left, turning the horse around to face him. His eyes widened, unsure of what to expect. He prayed that it wasn’t a white horse thief. That would amount to one less horse, at the very least. He didn’t want to think of what would happen in the worst instance. But the face that turned to him was just as dark as his own, and a lot harder. It was a hard-knock-life face, and the mouth was pulled into a tight grimace . . . or it could have been a weird smile. With a face like that, Cornelius couldn’t tell.
“Hey there, lil man,” the stranger said. “I found this ol’ girl wandering around. Figured maybe she’d run off from home. But I ain’t know where home was for her,” he panted. “Guess it’s a good thing you come along.”
Cornelius remained silent as the man slid from Lou’s back, which seemed to drain him of all energy. He stumbled and stabilized himself against Lou. “And,” he continued, “dis ain’t no horse, boy. It’s a mule.” He handed the reins to him.
“I know,” Cornelius finally spoke, encouraged by his repossession of Lou. “Grandmere says she’s an ass.” At ten years old, he hadn’t made the connection that the animal’s name was an abbreviated version of his mother’s. Had he been older, perhaps he would have been able to draw a parallel between Luella’s running off and Ida Mae’s near obsession with containing the mule.
The man laughed but stopped short and clutched his side. “Why don’t you let me walk with you and this ass to get a drank from that well down yonder?”
Cornelius shrugged and began to walk, leading Lou and the man leaning heavily against her.
“So, you stay in that house down there, huh?” the man asked.
“Yessuh.”
“With your grandma?”
“Yessuh,” Cornelius repeated.
“You Luella’s boy?” the stranger asked.
Cornelius stopped walking. This man knew his mother. He turned toward the man, full of questions. Before he could ask the first, the man collapsed. His face was covered in sweat. His jacket fell open to reveal a slit in his shirt and, beneath it, a slit in his side that was quickly soaking the rest of his garments.
Cornelius stepped back. The stranger’s eyes were closed. Cornelius scratched his head and absently reached for Lou’s reins. The stranger wasn’t going anywhere. He could wait until Cornelius secured Lou in the yard and swiped some rags and things from the house.
After making sure that the gate was properly latched, Cornelius raced toward the house skidding to a halt just outside the door. Ida Mae did not allow running. He kicked off his boots and hopped across the threshold onto the wooden floor his grandfather had installed. It was the only thing Cornelius knew about the man—the house was built by him, and he had always been proud of the floors he had placed in them. It wasn’t his grandfather’s only construction. Impatient with the development of the water well, Ida Mae’s husband had decided to construct his own. But wells are difficult to design and properly construct. Contaminants frequently were present, and the small community had voted to turn the Gaines construction into a dry well, a receptacle for water overflow. The dry well sat as a gaping mouth in the land, a parasitic twin to the prominent cemented structure that provided clean well water to the community.
“Boy, what’s all that stompin’ you doin’ about on your granddaddy’s floors?” Ida Mae looked up from her quilting. But Cornelius was barely listening. He was busy watching her hands work with precision on the quilting squares and thinking of the stranger’s gaping wound. Would it need to be sewn back together?
“’Nelius!”
“Ma’am?” he responded startled.
“Boy, where is your mind?”
“I . . . I found a . . .” he began, searching for a plausible explanation that would garner advice but not curiosity. Ida Mae was not one to help some strange man that had been stabbed. She’d be afraid that he was trouble. She certainly wouldn’t want someone around that knew anything about his mother. He could say that he’d found a hurt possum. But ever the opportunist, his grandmother would just want to add it to dinner. He could tell her Lou was hurt, but she’d insist on having a look for herself.
“Well?” Ida Mae demanded. “You found what?”
“A hurt dog,” Cornelius sputtered.
“Hmph, and I suppose you want to bring the mongrel in here?”
“No, ma’am. I just wanted to see if I could patch him up.”
Cornelius held his breath as Ida Mae took her time to answer. “You see about that mule?”
“Yes ma’am. She good. Even took her grazing by the well.”
A worried look crossed Ida Mae’s face. “Not that dry well.” Cornelius shook his head.
“You stay away from that hole, boy. Ground’s too loose. You liable to fall right in.” Ida Mae paused. “Well, g’won then. Look in my needle box and get what you need. Nothing that looks new though!”
When he returned to the well, the stranger was still passed out. Cornelius drew water from the well and dipped a rag in it. He laid it on the stranger’s head. After a brief pause and a sigh, he peeled back the man’s shirt to reveal the wound, black around red edges. He took another wet rag and gently began to wipe around it. Once he finished, he sat looking at the needle and thread. Cornelius had never sewn anything in his life and was not sure how to go about stitching human skin. He picked up the needle and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. Picking up the thread, he tried unsuccessfully to wind it through the eye of the needle.
“I’ll take it from here,” the stranger’s raspy voice hissed.
Cornelius looked up, startled yet relieved. Silently, he handed over the needle and thread and busied himself picking at a callus on his hand while the stranger took three attempts before successfully threading the needle.
“You got a match?” the man asked.
“Huh?” Cornelius looked back down the path toward the house and shook his head.
“I s’pose your grandma don’t know what you up to, huh?”
“Naw, suh,” Cornelius admitted.
“Alright then. Guess I gotta do this the really old way,” the stranger grinned. He placed the needle between his lips and gently drew it across, wetting it with his saliva. “It ain’t exactly purifyin’ by fire, but it’s all we got.”
“Is that really gonna help?” Cornelius asked.
“Well, we shole gonna see,” the man answered. “But I guess if it don’t . . .” he began and then extended his hand to Cornelius. “They call me Deuce.”
Cornelius accepted the handshake. “I’m Cornelius.”
“Lil C. I like that.” Deuce grinned, or rather Cornelius thought that it was a grin again. “Guess y’all ain’t got no dranking liquor down at the house neither, huh?” Cornelius shook his head.
“Alright then, Lil C. Here it goes.” Deuce began to stitch the wound. He managed to get about halfway done before he passed out again.
Cornelius leaned toward Deuce, afraid to shake him should it undo the stitching. He gently tapped Deuce’s forehead with his index finger. “Mr. Deuce?” There was no response. He looked at the needle, stuck mid pull between the two sections of skin. He thought about his grandmother and still could not bring himself to go get her for help, perhaps saving Deuce but definitely risking the chance of finding out more about his mother from him. He wondered if this was what his gran
dmother meant about going off into the woods learning to become a man. With new resolve, he firmly grasped the needle and slowly pulled it and the trailing thread through the skin. He tried not to focus on the blood collecting on the string or on the gentle resistance the skin supplied as the tension brought it together in what was appearing to be a very successful stitch.
He took his time and exhaled as he finished. Cornelius continued to hold the needle at the end of the stitch. He thought back to Ida Mae darning socks and repairing buttons, how she would bring the thread to her mouth and sever it from the needle with a quick bite. Deuce’s blood coated the needle and thread. The sight of which caused Cornelius’s stomach to churn. Whenever he tried to release the needle, the stitching grew slack, so he held on to it, maintaining the tension. Frantically, he looked around for a sharp rock, shard of glass, or anything that would cut the thread. Sliding his free hand across the ground, he found nothing. He wondered how long he had been outside. His grandmother would be cross, then worried, then come looking.
His palm was covered in dirt and the bloody fingers of his other hand were beginning to cramp from pinching the needle so tightly. He roughly wiped the dusty hand on his overalls and then used his fingers to try to wipe some of the blood from the thread. But the more he wiped, even as he tried to be gentle, the more it tugged and caused additional bleeding. The sun seemed to be disappearing beyond the tree line. Cornelius took a deep breath, clenched his eyes shut, and swiftly brought the thread to his teeth and severed it near the eye of the needle. He spat several times until his mouth was free from the imagined taste of blood and dirt. Deuce still had not stirred. Cornelius tied a double knot near the wound and left the excess thread standing erect from the body. There was no way he was using his teeth again for that. Deuce could take care of that later.
“Mr. Deuce?” He gently nudged Deuce’s shoulder and repeated his name until the man began to slowly regain consciousness. Deuce opened his eyes and winced. He licked his dry lips and Cornelius held a cup toward him.
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