“She’s a friend. Our parents were close, and we spent time together—as friends. You’re just upset, confused. Believe me.”
“No reason for me to believe you, not about anything. But I started out that way. Believed that being married to you, living in the North, would be a great adventure.”
I went to the window, pulled the curtain back, and opened it just a crack. I could hear the chaotic street noises that I still hadn’t gotten used to. Cars rushed by below as if everyone were headed to someplace very important. People honked their horns if another driver didn’t immediately take off when the light changed from red to green. It’d be impossible to measure the time between the light changing and a car horn honking. Exhaust lingered in the air and floated up through the window. The thick burnt-oil smell caught in my nostrils.
I missed Louisiana smells, the cooking fat Momma used to prepare fried fish or chicken, sausage or eggs. You could see the fat in the air, watch it cling to the thin curtains in the kitchen until, once a year, Momma tackled the project of taking all the curtains down to scrub them in the wash basin out back. She’d assign each of us a section of the kitchen wall to clean, using white-vinegar-laced warm water and hard bristle brushes that were also used to brush our donkey. “Scrub until you can see a shine,” she’d say. Momma would leave the room, and our scrubbing would turn into a game of throwing water at each other, trying to rub each other’s arms, back, and legs. “I’m gonna make you shine,” we taunted. Our bodies dripped with water, and small puddles formed on the floor by our feet. When Momma came back and saw the mess, she’d tell us, “The floor is next, so you children have a good start on that project.” We’d scurry back to our sections of wall, still pushing and shoving one another, our laughter muffled in our throats.
I turned away from the window, leaned my weight against the sill, and looked at our home. I couldn’t wash the walls here. There was faded and peeling wallpaper everywhere. It had a large floral pattern that looked as if someone had tried to make the place seem grand and expensive. In truth, it was anything but grand. There was a brown water stain in the ceiling over the sink, and plaster hung in spots, just waiting for a good jolt from the unit above ours to come loose and land on the counter. The furniture had been here when we moved in. “Fully furnished,” Henry had said as we walked up the three flights of stairs to our new home. Back then I’d seen a beautiful overstuffed chair with smart pillows, a charming folding table with mismatched wooden chairs that seemed to go nicely together, a double bed with four metal posts and a colorful quilt neatly folded at the foot.
Now I saw drab sleeping quarters that brought me more pain than comfort. The only good thing about the bed was my family quilt, made with my momma’s hands. The kitchen occupied one wall of the apartment—a small metal sink; a counter just large enough to hold some pots and pans; an apartment-sized stove with two burners and an oven; a frayed, braided, oval rug in the middle of the room that must have been colorful at some time in its past but was dingy now; and one tall dresser with a mirror that had lost most of its ability to reflect a person’s image. The door to the bathroom was directly across from the bed. I could roll over and see the toilet, listen to the dripping faucet in the bathtub. Since that first day we had added two children to our home and the many things that came with them—a crib, playthings, and diapers, so many diapers.
Miss Parker, I thought, reading my letters. She’d probably helped Momma with the letter too, it was so well phrased. Miss Parker—I wouldn’t want her to see this place.
I walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway. My feet carried me down the stairwell before my mind knew I was moving. I felt free, the way Josie had looked as she left the other day. The night air was crisp and cool on my face. I sat on the stoop, pulled my dress tight over my knees, rested my head, and let waves of sorrow take over. I talked to Daddy between sobs. “You told me I was meant to be something special. I let you down. I’m trying to be a good wife, but I’m not sure what that looks like. You and Momma made it seem so easy, as though you fit together, a matching set moving in tandem. I feel invisible, lurking in the spaces of other peoples’ lives. I want to be better, be the person you believed in. Miss you. Love you.”
My family was waiting upstairs. I wandered back and watched them. April was sleeping, and Junior was quietly playing at his daddy’s feet with a small ball that he kept kicking and then running after. Henry’s eyelids were getting heavy as he relaxed on the edge of the bed. He looked like one of the children, fighting off sleep in fear of missing some action in the room.
“Henry,” I said, “I’m going home to see Momma.”
He rubbed his forehead, dragged his hand over his eyes and down his nose, and began rubbing his neck, working out a kink that had settled there. Finally he shook his head and stared at the floor. “Nell, I know you want to see Momma, but I can’t afford it.”
“I can buy the bus tickets.”
“With what?”
“I have my own money.”
Henry stood and walked toward me, a worried look on his face. “How’s that?” He gave me a sideways stare, making me feel the way I always had when Momma caught me doing something she’d said not to.
“I worked for Ginny—did her books, handled the phones. She paid me for my time, told me the money would come in handy one day. That day is here.” My shoulders were back, my chin firm, my eyes fixed on his.
The blood vessels in Henry’s neck began to bulge, as though air were running through his veins. His nose flared like a hog’s, angry and mean. He took another step toward me, never wavering in his intense gaze. “Those damn women, they twisted your mind all upside-down. You had no business being with them. I never gave you permission to work.”
“I don’t need your permission. And your son wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for Ginny and Mabel. Without them I’d have died alone in labor. They’re the reason I have any mind left at all, what with being locked in this minuscule world—no phone, no television, no adult conversation, my family so far away!”
“Huh! And you call me a liar, you say you can’t believe me? What about you?” He took a step back, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out the door.
Henry came home late that night. The children were asleep, and I was curled in a knot; sleep wouldn’t come. I heard him open the door, trying to be quiet and not wake us. I stayed in my fetal position, eyes pressed shut. Henry didn’t touch me when he got into bed. I didn’t touch him either.
In the morning he crept out of bed much earlier than usual, got ready for work, and left. I pretended to be asleep. When I put my feet on the floor to greet the day, I noticed something on the table—bus tickets for Louisiana.
Chapter Thirteen
WE ARRIVED AT THE BUS STATION IN LOUISIANA ON Saturday morning. I collected our suitcase and turned to see our old truck parked in nearly the same spot it had been on the day I said good-bye to the farm. I could see my daddy standing beside the truck, his hand raised, signaling hello, looking just as he had some two years ago when he waved farewell. The glare of the sun made me faint; it was only as I shaded my eyes that I saw it was my oldest brother Robert by the pick-up. He stood just as tall and straight, the large muscles in his arms pressing against the torn sleeves of his T-shirt.
“Hi, Sis,” he said as I approached. “Welcome home.” He bent down and gave me a tender hug. I couldn’t remember ever being hugged by Robert. He was at least ten years older than I was—a quiet man like Daddy. He had always been at Daddy’s side—working the fields, repairing the house, making sure the truck and all the farm equipment ran properly. He’d sit on the porch with Daddy and the other men, chatting about the day’s work and neighborhood events.
“I thought you were Daddy.”
“I know. I miss him too.” He picked up Junior and held him over his head. “Hello, little man. I’m your Uncle Bobby.”
Junior looked scared at first, a frown developing in the corners of his mouth, but Robert kep
t bouncing him until peals of laughter emitted from Junior’s belly. He kicked his legs in the air and spread his arms as if he were taking flight into the clouds.
“This here’s April,” I said, holding her up to Robert so she could meet her uncle too. April drooled and held out her arms. Her right hand made a hello wave as she opened and closed her fingers.
Robert put Junior down and took April from my arms. She immediately patted her hand all over his face, examining the new territory. Satisfied that she was safe with him, she rested her head on his shoulder and began sucking her thumb. The four of us stood at the side of the truck, locked in a tight hug, Junior clinging to Robert’s trouser leg. I took in the smell of Robert, the rich soil caked in the creases of his neck. Tears began to sting my eyes.
He had been first to bring a wife home—Bernice—when she was just sixteen. I’d thought she would be a playmate for me, even though she was older. Instead she became my babysitter and Momma’s helper. They had never had any babies of their own. Once I’d spied Bernice and Momma in the kitchen. She and Robert had been married over a year by then. Bernice was crying, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Momma had rubbed her back, saying, “Sometimes it’s just not meant to be. You and Robert should pray on it.”
Bernice became the aunt who cared for all the other babies that arrived as each brother married and his wife moved into the house. She was neither angry nor sad, simply joyful to have so many children around her, so many beings she could care for and love. She called them all her babies. Robert was a loving uncle, teased and played with the kids, taught the boys how to fish and cut wood, held the girls’ hands and let them ride on his shoulders so they could see the whole world from up high. Sometimes, though, he got a sad look as he watched the growing gaggle of children run from him to their parents’ arms, the arms of his younger brothers, for comfort.
“How is Momma?” I asked as we began to drive home.
“Sad,” he said, without taking his eyes off the road. “He’d gotten so weak before …”
“I can’t imagine Daddy being weak,” I sighed.
“He couldn’t get out of bed. Momma had to feed him. I took over the farm.”
“Did he suffer?”
I touched the open compartment on the dashboard. Stuff was strewn about just as I remembered. Once I’d asked Daddy what it all was. He’d told me there were important things—the registration for the truck in case he got stopped and accused of stealing it; shopping lists of things he needed for the farm and Momma needed for the kitchen; a tire gauge to check the air; an old picture of him and Momma when they were much younger; a picture of all of us from Christmas time when I was just a baby; a small prayer book from church; and some candy “just for you.” I’d unwrapped the candy and quickly forgotten about the other items.
Now I imagined the taste of the sweet, gooey caramel sticking to my teeth as I heard Robert say, “Yes, he couldn’t use his own body the way he wanted to. He was suffering. Didn’t make a sound in complaint—just did what he could, accepted what we could do for him. I was on one side, Momma on the other. At the end he looked up at us and was gone, just gone.” Robert turned his face away from me and wiped his eyes.
My heart was pounding against my chest so hard I was certain that Robert could see and hear it. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”
“Nothing you could’ve done. You were where you needed to be.”
We rode in a heavy silence for a while. Finally Robert said, “Sis, your children are beautiful.”
“Thank you. They’re a blessing.”
“Bernice is going to love them.”
I took his hand. “I can’t wait for them to meet her, Momma, the whole family.”
Clouds of dust floated around us as the truck bounced down the old unpaved road. I rested my arm on the open window. Grit began to stick to my skin; the humid early-summer air kissed my eyelashes. It felt as though there were parallel universes looming before me. The past familiarity—open fields, cotton and corn plants dotting the landscape, pecan trees sprouting tender fruit, cows and mules eating contentedly—all belonged in one universe. But the space in the truck between me and Robert—him sitting in the grooves created by years of Daddy’s frame pressed into the fabric, me occupying the indentations that had belonged to Robert, and the empty middle space where I’d always sat wedged between the two of them—that was the present world tugging at my soul. I wanted to dream reality away—my life with Henry up North, the emptiness of the front seat, even the children fidgeting behind us.
April’s cries snapped me out of my reverie.
“Can we stop at the general store? I need to get more diapers for April. I bet it all looks the same, the store and all.”
“It does, Sis. Nothing much has changed here. Same old man runs the place, same old people hanging around just to snoop on everyone else. Nothing’s changed except that I go there now, instead of Daddy.”
I continued to stroke Robert’s hand as I stared out the side window.
We pulled up to the general store, and the old sensibility gripped me again. Often church ladies would talk about having an out-of-body experience, where you felt as though you were hovering above looking down at yourself, watching. I felt that way looking at the store. I could see the younger me walking with Daddy up the steps, him telling me to be quiet and stay close by his side, me examining the sweets, deciding which candies I’d take home, Daddy waiting patiently as the whites were tended to, keeping his head down as he paid for the goods, gently guiding me out the door before I questioned him about anything.
“I’ll be just a minute,” I said to Robert as I opened the car door.
“Here,” Robert said as he handed me a ten-dollar bill. “Just in case you need it.”
Henry had left a little cash for me with the bus tickets. I hadn’t needed much. Whenever the bus had stopped, I’d bought something for us to drink, but otherwise I’d carried enough food to last us the long ride. I never counted the money, before we left or after I spent any of it. I didn’t know how much diapers would cost here.
“Thank you.” I stepped out of the car to make my way into the store.
“Be careful, Sis—this is the same South.”
April and Junior were fast asleep in the back seat. I smoothed my dress as best as I could, adjusted my hat so it sat straight on my head, placed my purse on my arm at the elbow, and held my gloved hand at a relaxed angle, just dangling from my wrist. With my chin held high I took a first step toward the front door.
The red coca-cola cooler was still to the right of the door, just as I remembered. I could almost taste the cold dark fizz flowing down my throat as my lips circled the green-tinted bottle. It had always been a treat to have Daddy get us our own bottles of soda pop to hold and sip as we waited outside for him. Momma had never liked for us to have soda-pop. It’ll ruin your teeth. You children should only have milk and water. I could hear her reprimand whenever she caught Daddy letting us have a coke. They’ll be okay, Daddy’d say, just as we finished the last gulp.
To the left of the door, a few steps away, was the one gas pump for miles around. The red star and circle of the Texaco sign didn’t look as bright as I remembered. There was a dullness to it, as though it had been battered by strong winds. The pock marks denting the once-smooth surface had likely been made by kids taking aim with small rocks. The pungent scent of gasoline, hanging heavy in the dusty air, clung to the tiny hairs in my nostrils. I stood still and took deep breaths, as though smelling the sweet fragrance of freshly bloomed roses.
Robert leaned toward the passenger side window. “Sis, you okay?”
“I’m just enjoying being home.”
I walked up the last few steps and pulled open the creaking screen door, its holes so large the bugs had no trouble getting inside.
As I entered the old man said, “Morn’n,” without looking up at me.
I replied, “Good morning. I need some diapers for my little one.”
“R
ight down the end there, in the back, you’ll find plenty.”
He still hadn’t made eye contact with me. Not that it was intentional; he was busy marking prices on some dishes stacked on the counter by the cash register. I recognized him, the owner, the white man who had embarrassed my daddy.
I brought the diapers to the counter. Only then did he look up, and a glimmer of recognition came across his face. “You Jones’s daughter, the one done moved up yonder.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of common knowledge. Probably the neighbors had sat around the store and talked about the young girl who had left home to travel North as a child bride.
“Yes, Mr. Jones was my daddy.”
“Good man. Sorry ’bout your loss.”
His comment fell on my heart like a sharp knife, causing me to wince in pain. I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and was about to scowl at him and say, “You called my daddy boy, made him leave your store.” But Robert’s words of caution rang in the back of my mind. I thought about my children, innocently waiting in the back seat of the truck; about Robert, who was already concerned that I might have forgotten how to behave; about Momma at the farm, her heart in mourning for Daddy—she didn’t need any problem caused by my sassing this white man. So I said, “I remember coming here with Daddy after that boy was killed in Mississippi. My daddy was uncomfortable, almost scared. I didn’t like seeing him that way.”
I steeled my chin, expecting him to lash back at me. Instead he looked almost sad and held my gaze for a moment longer than was needed. He spoke in a whisper, looking from side to side to make certain no one else was around. “Sometimes you have to do things that don’t always agree with the heart. You up yonder now, probably think our ways here are bad and mean. You’ve seen how it can be different. Your daddy was a good man. He and I understood each other. He knew when I didn’t have a choice about things.”
“He was my daddy.” My eyes began to sting from tears I didn’t want to fall down my cheeks.
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