“Nell!” Ginny touched my arm and tried to move it away from my face, but I held tight.
“What’s wrong with her?” Mabel whispered. “Never seen a woman act this way towards her baby.”
“She’s not a woman, just a sixteen-year-old child herself. Scared is all … Nell, listen to me.” Ginny stroked my damp hair with kind gentleness. Momma had soothed me in the same way whenever fear showed up, fangs exposed.
“Momma!” I groaned between gasps of air.
“You the momma now,” Ginny said. She cupped her hand under my breast, slid the baby up, and slipped my nipple into its mouth. It grabbed hold and began sucking like a starving newborn calf at a cow’s tit. Ginny took my arm and wrapped it around the baby’s back; she rested my hand against its head, then gave me a gentle push. “This is how you hold him to your breast,” she said, and let go, forcing me to keep it in place.
I kept my eyes squeezed tight and cradled the dollop of shiny flesh in my arms, wondering how something of me could be so foreign to me.
A thin fog bedimmed my mind. It was as though I were watching from afar as Ginny and Mabel cleaned blood and muck from between my legs, tidied the room, mopped the floor, and eased me into bed, resting the baby on my chest. I let my body give in to their comforting movements, imagining myself rocking in a cloth hammock swaying between two magnolia trees, a cool Louisiana breeze brushing against my skin. But on the inside of my eyelids the mosaic of my life began to form—it resembled rivulets of birth-waste splashed on the floor.
Chapter Eleven
APRIL WAS BORN IN APRIL. SHE WAS SUCH A CUTE baby. Her tiny face and hands reminded me of the new buds appearing on the flowering trees just beginning to wake from winter’s grip. Henry didn’t seem to care about her name. The day I had given birth to the first baby, just fourteen months before, Henry had grabbed the baby from my chest, held it up to the ceiling cupped in his hands, and proclaimed, “My son, Henry Junior.” When he saw that this baby was a girl, with my features, he looked away without touching her and said, “Call it whatever you want.”
“April,” I said. “My little ray of springtime.”
He said, “Humph.”
I LOOKED AT Junior playing on the floor, April wiggling in the crib, and the apartment that had been getting smaller every day since the children joined us. Their two cribs were placed longways against the wall next to our bed, with just enough space for me to swing my legs out on the side of the bed and stand. It was easy to reach into April’s crib at night to breastfeed her or to give Junior his bottle. Henry had moved to the side facing the bathroom, saying it would be easier for me to take care of the babies if I slept near them. He told me to be quiet at night with their needs so as not to wake him.
As I made my way to the bathroom I tripped over the things Henry had brought home for Junior the night before. In addition to the small football and basketball already taking up space, a baseball, glove, and bat had been added. I asked Henry, “Why so many things for Junior? He’s too little to enjoy them. And what about April?”
He said, “My son needs to know about sports now. That way I can see where his talents are.”
“And April?” I asked again.
“She’s your concern,” he replied.
Sometimes I tried to get Henry to take April while I washed the dishes after dinner. “Hold your daughter while I’m cleaning.”
“No,” he’d grunt. “I need to polish my shoes.” He always tended to his shoes while I tidied up and got the children down for the night.
I was anxious for the girls to arrive today. Wednesday continued to be the one day I was able to have visitors, enjoy adult conversation, and remember that there was a life outside this tiny place the four of us called home. Henry had taken issue with the visits by Ginny, Mabel, and Josie after the horrible day he’d dragged me home as if I were a sack of potatoes he could toss around at will. But I reminded him, “If it hadn’t been for Ginny, your son might not have made it into the world.” He didn’t complain again. Instead he brought home a small radio one day, saying, “This can keep you company, along with your books.” But though I loved books, and though listening to the radio let me learn about the outside world and enjoy music, nothing could replace conversations with another woman.
“Just me today,” Josie said as she came in and took a seat at the table.
“Glad you’re here. How’re Ginny and Mabel? How’re things at the shop? Any new customers? What’s the weather like out there? Hungry? I have some chili and cornbread. Meat’s left over from the meatloaf I made for Henry, hope that’s all right. Babies quiet right now. April loves her naps, and Junior won’t bother with us—he’s enjoying all the things Henry brings home for him to play with. Honestly, I don’t know how much more we can fit into this place. You saw the stuff lined up in the hall outside? I have to keep the baby carriage, playpen, and highchairs there. I think the neighbors don’t like it much, but no one’s complained, at least not to me. When we go outside for a walk, Henry has to carry everything to the sidewalk and then come back to get me and the children. He carries Junior; April is my responsibility. I don’t go without Henry; he doesn’t want me to, thinks his children won’t be safe. Often he takes Junior by himself, leaves April and me here. Sometimes I find myself talking to the walls, waiting for my voice to bounce back at me like another woman keeping me company. All I actually hear is children noises.
“It’s good to have a radio. I listen whenever the children are quiet. Don’t always understand what I hear coming from the box. Sounds like there’s still trouble in the South between the races. My Daddy always said blacks built this country with our blood and whites rule over it with their fists. Made him angry, but then he’d say, ‘A man can’t live on a diet of hate. We have to carry on and learn to forgive.’ I heard talk about something called the Olympics due to happen next summer, where athletes from all over the world come together and compete. Gonna be in Rome this time. There’s excitement about a black boxer, Cassius Clay—they say he’s someone to pay attention to. And a black woman runner, Wilma Rudolf, she won medals in the last games and should win again. Imagine, Blacks from America being famous all over the world. I hope to get books about them so I can learn more.
“The radio talkers are excited about the presidential election. This John Kennedy is so young, and a Catholic. They think he’ll win and the country will be better for it. Even Blacks may benefit from his presidency. I’d like to ask my Daddy what he thinks. I know he and the men are chewing on this every night on the front porch. Want more tea, or chili? So glad you came to visit.”
I must have been walking in circles as I went on and on. Josie finally stopped me, put her hands on my shoulders, and said, “Nell, it’s all right, let’s just sit and chat for a while. I have to get back to the shop in an hour—I have a new customer today. The chili looks delicious.
“I think these Olympics will be very exciting. Ginny plans to have a TV in the shop so our customers can watch the games. This will be the first time the world can see the events live, not just rely on radio announcers and day-old newspaper stories. TV is going to change everything.
“You’re right about race relations. Things have changed but not necessarily for the better. Things are brewing in the South—I think Southern Blacks have had enough and the younger ones are going to lash out eventually. And here it’s not that much different, we just like to fool ourselves into thinking it’s better. But oppression takes a more subtle turn in the North. Just look at all the Southern Blacks migrating here, like all of us. We’re forced into the same neighborhoods—not that we’d want to live in the white areas. Still, space is running out. These old brownstones are all owned by whites. They don’t take care of the buildings, and we just crowd more and more people into the same dreary spaces. It’s as though our people are still in slave ships, stacked one on top of the other or living in tight slave quarters on a plantation. Just look at your situation, stuck in this tiny place, two children, He
nry not letting you out …” She abruptly stopped talking and reached to touch my cheek. “Oh, Nell, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to say that.”
I picked at the hard skin around my fingernails and said, “You’re right—look at me.”
“Sorry. Well, I’d better be going. Ginny’ll be expecting me soon.” She held Junior and then April, gave them each a kiss. Then she wrapped her arms around me and held on, rocking us back and forth. “You be strong,” she whispered.
After she left, I watched her on the stairs, then ran to the window to see her figure fade into the collection of people making their way along the sidewalk, happily living their lives on what seemed to be a fine spring day. I envisioned her giving a report to Ginny and Mabel once back at the shop. She’d tell them I looked weary. I’d rambled on and on about nothing in particular. She’d say that my hair was a mess. I was little more than a caged bird with a couple of chicks pecking away, my daily companions. My life was as minuscule as the apartment. When I turned away from the window and viewed my inside life, it felt as though the walls were closing in, the ceiling inching its way down onto my head, the evaporating air causing me to grasp for breath. This is my slave ship, I thought, floating on stormy seas with an uncertain future on the horizon. I sighed, took out a piece of paper, and wrote a letter home:
Dear Mom and Dad,
I turned eighteen today. I love you.
Your Baby Girl
Chapter Twelve
I CONTINUED TO WRITE LETTERS HOME, ALTHOUGH THE messages got shorter and shorter once I became a momma. Almost two years had passed since I came North and started writing—and still there was no response from my family. I filled my letters with news about the children; how their appearance and behavior changed day to day; how Junior took his first steps and began constantly running around like an athlete; how April was alert to my movements and moods, her eyes following me throughout the day; how they each needed me in their own unique ways. I didn’t write about Henry and how his need for me at night was relentless. I didn’t want to be like my momma, my sisters, and my brothers’ wives—always walking around with a round belly, one baby at my breast, one at my skirt, and my husband thinking about the next one to be made. Yet here I was. I didn’t share my disappointment.
One day a letter arrived at the apartment addressed to me. It was from my momma.
Dear Baby Girl,
We got all of your letters, just so you know. You seem to be very happy up North. Baby Girl, sadness has settled here with the family. Your Daddy took real ill after you left. It was sudden. We tried everything to keep him, but the Lord called Daddy up and he’s no longer with us. I miss him so much. You were his special baby girl. He was happy to see you married and starting a family of your own. I know he’d want you to continue to build your family up North and keep him in your heart.
We buried him in the cemetery near the church, you remember. We had a good going-home ceremony for him, everyone in the county was there. I’m sorry you couldn’t come. We called Henry right away. He told us you haven’t been strong since having the babies and thought it best if you didn’t travel so far.
I miss you, Baby Girl. I hope to see you one day soon and meet my new grandbabies, they look so cute, just like you. Keep writing.
Love,
Your Momma
My legs turned into liquid. I sank to the floor, clutching my momma’s message in a tight fist against my chest. The walls of the apartment began to close in on me, while the floor spun beneath my feet as though I were on a merry-go-round with ugly creatures as the rides. “DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!” I called, curled on my side, knees pulled to my chest, sobs lulling me into a hurtful, empty, angry coma.
April let out a wail from her crib, but the sound was little more than a faint echo of my guttural noises. Junior staggered to where I lay, stood over me, and then plopped on the floor at my shoulder, tears streaming down his face.
I was barely aware of the children. There was just one clear thought in my mind—Henry knew!
I wanted to get up and gather myself, but my body was frozen—a prone statue, a hard ebony carving that looked like a woman. Junior was still next to me, leaning his head against me. He never made a sound. I heard April cry, but she stopped soon, as though she knew I wouldn’t take care of her needs. The little bit of sunshine that came through the window faded, slowly shifting the room from bright light into darkness.
I heard Henry open the door, heard his shoes, felt the darkness of our home expand with his presence. He fumbled as he stepped inside, eyed me on the floor, and looked at his son, motionless at my side. April let out a wail, wanting to get his attention, but he ignored her and reached for Junior. “Nell, what’s wrong?”
Slowly I raised myself up to a sitting position and wiped my face on the sleeve of my crumpled dress. Then I handed him the letter still clenched in my fist.
Henry read the message from my momma and looked away. “Oh, Nell, I’m so sorry.”
I raised myself onto my knees, threw my head back, spread my arms to the side, and let out a howl that pierced the walls of our apartment, nearly rattling the windows. April started screaming. “How could you?” I spit out the words between clenched teeth.
“Nell!” He tried to touch me, but I pushed his hands away.
“How?” I growled and began to hit him on his shoulders. My blows landed like soft touches rather than the hard pounding I’d intended. Junior joined me with blows on Henry’s back from his tiny fists.
“Nell, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.” He tried to pull me close. I shoved him away.
“When did you know?”
“A few days after your daddy passed. You must’ve told your momma where I worked. I got a phone call. She told me then. I said it wouldn’t be good for you to travel, to leave the children or take them with you. She understood. Oh, Nell, I …”
“Stop!” I screamed. “You bastard! He was my father.”
“I didn’t know what to do. Your momma said she’d send a message to you, and we decided to let her tell you in her own way.”
“I should’ve seen my daddy buried. Been with my family. How could you take that away from me? How?”
“Nell—I—”
“You what?”
“Nell—I don’t—we can’t …” He shifted his weight from side to side, pulled on his chin, and rubbed the deep creases that had formed on his forehead. He looked down at his shoes and said, “I don’t have the money. I thought about asking for an advance from the boss, to send you alone, but who would take care of the children? I have to work.”
“My daddy, my daddy …” I turned my back on him, the children, the apartment, and stared at the window. There I found my fractured reflection.
“We’ll have your momma come here to visit, soon as I can send her a ticket. It’ll be good for her to see the grand-babies and you. And one day we’ll all go back to visit the family. I’m so sorry about your daddy.”
I saw Daddy’s face again, remembered what he had said to me about holding my marriage gently, like an apple, and using the knife for good. I closed my eyes, rubbing my chest where I thought my heart should be, and quietly hummed a church hymn as I shuffled to the bed. Henry kissed me on the cheek and pulled the quilt over my shoulders. I lay on my side, staring at nothingness through the film of moisture covering my face, my cheek pressed against a piece of Momma’s delicate lace. I began to smell the hogs again, the stink of a pen that needed cleaning.
But no, it was April’s full, hot, steaming diaper. I could see Henry turning his face in disgust as he worked at cleaning her before putting on a new diaper. Junior was holding his nose, standing as far away as he could. Henry picked April up with his free arm and slowly walked to the toilet. Junior crept behind them, curious about how his daddy was going to do what he had only seen his momma do each day. My family, I thought, here are my babies with their daddy.
I reached for the letter and pressed it flat, smoothing all the wrinkles I had made from cl
enching it. I needed to touch Momma’s words, to trace the letters she had made and let the weight of Daddy’s death flow from my fingertips to my heart. She said they’d gotten all my letters and read them. But how? My family didn’t read. How had she known what was in those letters? I had known as I wrote them that no one in the family could read well enough to go through each one easily. I’d promised to write, and so I did. I’d thought maybe my brothers might read the letters aloud, since they’d had some schooling. I’d used short sentences, small words, easy for anyone with simple reading skills to understand. But now I wanted to know.
“Henry? You said you talked to Momma.”
“I told you, she called me at work.”
“You heard my momma speak. Talked to her. Almost two years, and all I can do is imagine the sound of her voice in my ears. What did she say?”
“I told you, she …”
“I want to know every word she said, what her voice sounded like, what she said about the family. How long did you and she talk? What day? Did you just come home that day, eat, polish your shoes, like nothing was different? How is that possible?”
“Nell …”
“No! Tell me what I need to know.”
“All right.”
“Who read my letters to them?”
“Miss Parker,” he said.
“What?”
“Your momma said that Miss Parker read your letters to everyone. She’d come by the house, sit on the front porch, and read your letters so that the whole family, and the neighbors, could hear what you wrote.”
Miss Parker, I whispered to myself. Reading my letters. Miss Parker! “What’d you ask Momma about Miss Parker?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know there’s been more between you two than you’ve said.”
“I don’t understand. We grew up together, that’s all.”
“That’s not all!” I shouted. “Mention her name and you light up like a candle. Tell me she’s Mary, not Miss Parker like I say. You care for her, don’t you?”
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