Some Sing, Some Cry

by Ntozake Shange

  “Speak for yourself, missy. Blanche presented her little blue-veined behind to me in the middle of the night. And she coming out backwards weren’t no delight of mine either. I’m that girl’s mother. The two of you may forget that, but God Almighty and I sure haven’t.”

  “We most there, now. Mah Bette, don’t worry yourself.”

  “Not me worrying, Lijah-Lah. It’s this gal here thinks she can catch up to her future or outrun the past, I don’t know which. Anyway Charleston’s not going anywhere, and neither is Blanche, bless her poor shallow soul.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Nana.”

  “Lijah-Lah, do you hear this, now my gran’s gointa tell me I can’t call upon the Lord for one of mine I know needs His help. Ain’t that something?” Betty was amusing herself again with Eudora’s anxiety, her fear of what to do with herself. They were doing just fine, the Lord saw to it. They were breathing. What else that girl want?

  Long strokes and a few grits of his teeth, Lijah-Lah brought the overloaded canoe into Sue-Sue’s landing. They made a number of other stops ’long the way to Charleston. Betty greeted her weaver friends, her basket-making sisters, and the woodworkers who’d been kind enough over the years to fill her house with all manner of cypress and walnut furniture. Betty stopped to sanctify the kindness shown to her for so long. No matter what her children looked like, no matter who their pa was.

  Eudora imagined herself in Brother Diggs’s grand house in Charleston with Blanche, her aunt, to show her the finer way to live. To know the opera and the ballet that Charleston boasted before any other colonial center. Why, her Aunt Blanche was cultured, had escaped the sin of her birth, she thought. All I have to do is refine my outside qualities and no one will ever know. They’ll never know. Not thinking, Eudora answered Sue-Sue’s daughter, Maribel, in Gullah. She didn’t even hear herself. The part of her that was the islands spoke at will, with ease. Eudora actually smiled every once in a while when they passed a tabby hut she recognized, but she’d never tell her Nana. Nothin’ rushes water but the water alone. Eudora was no fool, simply a girl aching to feel dreams she could hold, that she could touch.

  And there was a whole lot of holding of folks and plucking and beating of instruments every time Betty and Lijah-Lah stopped at a half-hidden old place set behind loping magnolia trees dressed in wax myrtle and nestled in circles of spartina and palmetto. The music’d get to going and Betty’d set to dancin’ with young men and old, blue black and ivory, toothy or toothless, limbs whole or withered. The whole of the waterways knew something was up or over. The last of the Mayfield colored women was gettin’ on away from here. The swamp sang ’long with the folk, and Eudora, still as she was, was singing because the choice was no longer hers. It was up to the growing things, the flying and biting creatures, now. Hurricane time come soon enough. Though brooding, Eudora knew she too was a force of nature like all the Mayfields. Time would come when the winds would sing her song.

  Lijah-Lah whistled to Max, the oyster man. Max, upon hearing, cocked his head and cooed back smiling to himself, knowing it was his friend Lijah-Lah even before he could see him. Through the darkness he made out three figures. By Gawd, one was Betty Mayfield, whose outline he knew as well as his own hand. So they were the cargo, the Mayfields. Max would be taking the last of the Mayfield clan from Tamarind to Charleston. No wonder Lijah-Lah had not mentioned who or what he wanted Max to carry. Betty Mayfield was leaving Tamarind!

  On Emilena, the oyster man’s bateau, the strange mixture of salt water and fresh gave the air Eudora huddled in a depth like a blanket everywhere she moved, stretched, arched her back. Max the oyster man was an industrious fellow, finding a way to make himself a bit more independent any old way he could. Folk talked bout that. Max was a bachelor, one past his prime, so what was he making a legacy for, who was to benefit from all his work beyond what had to be done? Max’d reply in his slow and sly way, never letting on whether he was joshing or no, “Can never tell who’ll be in need, I looks at it this way.” Betty knew Max most of her life and all of his, she wasn’t surprised. If the Yankees could wipe clean the riches of planters, who knew what could disrupt a niggah’s fortune? Best to have more. Wasn’t nothing to be said about having enough.

  Betty couldn’t help herself. She started counting, picking out the green growing things she loved and might never see again. You could tell, she thought, almost exactly where you were by the growing things lacing your path, flirting with the tides, murmuring honest “forget-me-nots” to the bateau and her passengers. Betty wanted to share her good-byes with Eudora, but the child had decided to absent herself from her own life’s turning-point, too full of tomorrow to pay homage to yesterday. Betty, missing conversation, decided to let her graying hair down out its braid. When she was through slowly unwinding the heavy mass rarely seen in public, never by menfolk, even Max, who paid women no mind at all, believing they didn’t have any, was hankering to get his thick knobby fingers to running through that fine-looking old gal’s head of hair. What nets he could design with the like of black and white strands Betty shook atop the water so they set the water lilies to dancing, got the wax myrtle giggling, the spartina and star marsh to putting on airs. Azaleas backed up gainst palmetto looking to mask themselves in the face of such wanton abundant growth. All this was goin’ on, Betty smiling, feeling the energy from the river in the pit of her groin.

  2

  Blanche Mayfield Diggs was not pleased with the architect’s new designs for her country home. She was so annoyed that she dropped the blueprints and had to call the girl for some smelling salts. She suddenly reminded herself of her mother, Betty, who all too often associated physical ailments with something gone asunder in life. This thought made Blanche Diggs even woozier. What else, what at all could she have in common with her mother?

  The girl came running up the stairs to Blanche still pulling on the cord of dark violet. Maggie couldn’t get the smelling salts close to Blanche quick enough. Blanche’s mind and body flooded with a confusion of thoughts and feelings. Something terrible was going to happen to her or Roswell, one of the children. This was a sign. She knew sure as her mother. This was definitely a sign. Blanche shook her hand toward Maggie to pick up the blueprints. Then she indicated with some fingers to roll them up and lay them on her desk. Blanche loved that desk. It was very much the fashion, Oriental, with inlaid mother of pearl and gold trimming on the peacock’s feathers. The wood—teak—brought up memories of the colors of those who’d peopled her childhood, comforting her, although of this she was unaware.

  Just as she was managing to make her bedroom stop twirling about, leave Maggie with only one face, the peacocks no longer prancing, Blanche shook her head again. There was a great commotion coming from somewhere in her house. Loud voices, even peculiar smells. All this began to undo her composure. Now Blanche was becoming angry. She had no time to be losing her senses, lying about waiting for the world to come into focus. Maggie stood about waiting for God knows what else to happen, watching over her like she was some injured stray. Blanche took one deep breath. “Don’t you think we ought to see what in heaven’s name’s taking place in this house, girl?”

  “Yes, m’am,” Maggie replied without moving.

  “Oh, Maggie, sometimes . . .” Blanche muttered under her breath, pulling her skirts up to give herself room for a purposeful stride. “If I was the one who inherited your black behind, I’d disinherit you now. But Roswell, Roswell has obligations. Obligations. And as Roswell is obliged to keep you in service, so am I. So, am, I.” Blanche turned suddenly, realizing Maggie was nowhere to be seen. “Maggie?” she screamed.

  “M’am?” Maggie’s head peeked from Blanche’s doorway. Maggie knew to stay out of the way of Blanche’s walking tirades.

  “Let’s go see what madness is overtaking the house you’re to be keeping charge of, shall we?”

  Blanche was red with rage. Who had the gall to inconvenience her? She was just now coming out of a spell. What on ea
rth was that? What was wrong with Maggie? Even Blanche knew haints and spirits didn’t come traipsing about in the daytime.

  “Maggie, I said let’s go.”

  “Yes, m’am.” Maggie spurted with more liveliness. “That’s right,” the seasoned maid said under her breath, “I’m the one to keep order in this house. How could I forget that?”

  Blanche was in a brisk yellow damask dress, her wasp waist natural and envied. Her skirts rustled with the determination of Napoleon’s armies. Head high in the air, Blanche almost didn’t see Maggie catching up to her going down the stairway. The two virtually flew down the last landing, but Blanche prevailed, presenting herself with grace and blazing blue eyes.

  “Mama, Mama, Mama!” Benny and Francina ran toward her, forcing her to give up her stiff demeanor. “Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama, did Tobias come tell you? Did he? Did he?”

  Blanche drew her children to her. Oh, how she loved them. Their faces were in a state of wonder and excitement. As if they’d been to the circus or Market Square with the island women telling them hocus-pocus tales while weaving their baskets and selling their wares of fruits and seafoods, all manner of whimsical concoctions. The children kept up the clamor until Blanche broke into laughter herself.

  “Yes, I’m your mama, but I was your mama long before now. Are you telling me you are just now realizing who I am?”

  “No, No. Mama, not you. Your mama. That’s right, your mama is here. That means we’ve a Nana and a cousin.”

  “Mama, why didn’t you tell us before?” Benny indignantly pulled at her arm.

  “That’s right, Benny,” Francina chimed in. “Nanas are a precious lot.” Blanche could hear her mother’s voice tangled in the voices of her children. “Is that daughter number two I see?” This was not good, but Blanche was too caring a mother to simply push her children aside; they were not the problem.

  “Oh, did I forget to mention my mother? Oh, I remember now. I thought you two were so smart that you knew, even I had to have a mama somewhere.”

  “Oh, Mama, I thought you never mentioned her because, well, because . . .” Francina’s eyes started to water.

  “She thought she was dead. And you missed her so much you never spoke of her, that’s what,” Benny said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, I thought so myself.” The voice of her stepson Roswell Jr. hovered over her like a circle of vultures. Blanche had tried to love this boy, but his own mother never let go of him enough to leave room for her. Now, any closeness between them would be impossible. Nothing could shut Roswell Jr.’s mouth now. “Yes, I saw the whole thing myself. I can’t wait to tell Father.”

  “Me, either,” Francina blurted.

  “Me, too,” Benny echoed.

  “Imagine a long-lost, taken-for-dead Nana appearing at the Diggs front door,” marveled Roswell Jr.

  “Who’s that sayin’ I’m dead when I’m right here on this earth?” Betty bellowed from the parlor, the French doors only serving to usher her indignation through the foyer where Blanche was trying very hard not to use some vigorously strong language directed to Roswell Jr.

  The smartly tailored Roswell Jr. played affectionately with Francina’s curls. “I saw the whole thing.”

  “What whole thing?” Blanche responded.

  “Your children . . .”

  “You mean, your brother and sister, don’t you?”

  “Why of course. Benny knows that’s what I mean. Don’t you, big fellow?” Benny nodded in eager agreement.

  “My brother and little sister, here, were looking through the latticework of the library window because a strange carriage had pulled up to the front of the house with two women who were even stranger looking . . .”

  Whatever else Roswell Jr. had to say, Blanche never heard. She’d already begun to trek to the parlor to see her mother and, maybe, her niece Eudora. But it could be anybody from out there on those islands. Could even be ones who still couldn’t speak English and wore amulets and potions round their necks to ward off evil, disease, and such. Blanche began talking to herself. She lost sight of her children for just a few moments to ask, “How did they find this house? How could two creatures with no city ways find their way here?”

  Following right behind her, Roswell whispered, “Well, she is your mother, Mama. And any fool could tell any other fool where the Diggs home is.”

  Roswell Jr. was enjoying himself so much. Blanche’s azure eyes cut him into a thousand pieces, yet she restrained herself so she could greet her relatives. When Blanche entered the parlor, she didn’t see her mother, Betty. She saw bags. Tied-together suitcases. Woven baskets with those godawful island patterns, jammed full of what apparently were all Betty’s worldly possessions, her banjo atop, strung up with twine.

  “Aw, Mother, what a surprise! And this must be Eudora!” Blanche feigned familiarity and happiness at the sight of the two who’d traveled so far.

  “I ain’t no surprise, gal. I’m your mama. And who else could that be but Eudora? You think I just run around the marsh lookin’ for more responsibilities and gals with hard heads to raise? Do ya?”

  Francina had never heard a soul speak to her mama like this before. She hid in her mother’s skirts, but not for long. Uncharacteristically, Blanche yanked Francina to the fore. “Mother, this is your granddaughter, Francina. And, Francina, this is your cousin, Eudora.”

  “But she’s so big, Mama!”

  “Yes, she’s almost a young lady, ready to go out on her own.”

  “What about me?” Benny whined.

  “That’s right, angel-baby, what about you?” Betty cooed. “C’mon right here to ya Nana.” Betty opened her arms wide as love can, and Benny and Francina both fell laughing in her lap.

  “Mother. You’re their Grandmother, or Grandma. A nana is someone who works . . . well, is a servant.”

  “Are we not all servants of the Lord in this house?” Betty snapped.

  “I’m Roswell Diggs Jr., Mrs. Mayfield. Welcome to our home for as long as you care to visit with us and the beautiful city of Charleston. We shall do our best to make your stay pleasurable.”

  The only thing Blanche could say to that and to Eudora’s blank face was, “Francina, play something on the piano for your grandmother. Benny, get your violin.”

  Roswell saw an opportunity he hadn’t expected. Eudora was a comely young woman with a hint of wild in her eyes. The way her shoulders sat easily on her muscular torso, so straight with pride, aroused him. “I apologize for my stepmother’s neglect. I’m Roswell Diggs—”

  “Yes, I heard, ‘Junior.’ You are very gracious, sir.”

  “You mustn’t refer to me that way. I’m almost family.”

  “That’s the truth and don’t you two forget that.” Betty raised her eyebrows and attempted to find a comfortable way to sit in Blanche’s rigidly upholstered satin chaise. “Show some respect for these younguns. They are getting ready to perform for they Nana.”

  “Mother . . .” Blanche felt the need for the smelling salts again.

  Roswell situated himself near Eudora while Francina and Benny displayed no talent at all. Betty carried on like she was at Black Patti’s Minstrel Show. Francina was inspired now. She played every tune she knew and some she’d never seen before. Benny showed Betty how the marks on the staff corresponded to the notes they played.

  “Leastways, my grans unnerstan they nothin’ wrong with not knowin’ somethin’. Just somethin’ wrong when cain’t nobody learn nothin’ to a body.”

  Roswell, taking all this in, noticed that Blanche couldn’t ground herself anywhere. She was like a loose buoy in her own parlor. “You know, Eudora, Mrs. Mayfield, my stepmother is so overwhelmed, she’s forgotten to offer some sweet tea. Maggie, bring our family some tea and those delicious shortbread things with the raspberries that you make.”

  “I’d prefer coffee myself, black,” Betty said.

  “Then, coffee it shall be. Maggie, did you hear that?”

  “Well, sir, Mr. Diggs Jr., I us
ually serve what Miss Blanche ask for?”

  “That’s all right, Maggie. Just bring something,” Blanche said sharply.

  “Yes, m’am.”

  “Why you got to speak to that gal like that, Blanche?”

  “Mother, this is my house.”

  “How I’m goin’ ta forget that, I’d like to know that now?”

  “Nana, there’s no need to be ornery with Mrs. Diggs.” Eudora blushed and patted Betty’s hand, heavy-veined as it was, delicate as she was.

  “That ain’t Mrs. Diggs, chile, that’s Blanche.”

  In the corner of the parlor Roswell Jr. was about to split his sides. How could his stepmother have imagined she could escape what she was and where she came from. Some Geechee gal up outta the swamp. Then he recalled his face smarting from the palm of his father’s hand. All he’d said was, “Papa, we used to own wenches like that.” And his father’s hand flew like an anvil through the Carolinian dusk.

  “Those wenches, as you call them, were your cousins, aunts, and uncles. I slaved hard to buy them from the white folk. Are you a complete ingrate, a fool, or have I neglected some aspect of your upbringing, lil niggah?”

  Maybe that was why the beautiful Blanche never shared her tenderness or lighthearted joy with him, only with her own children. She treated him like he was a white, really. Staying out of his way, saying only what had to be said. Roswell Jr. never stopped regretting that day. He’d wanted to call someone Mother. Now, how abruptly his wounded soul twisted that thought. He needed a Mammy, too. Maybe Blanche’s mother would do.

  “Let’s go help Maggie bring Nana and Sistah Eudora some repast. What do you say to that?” Swiftly Roswell Jr. swept Francina and Benny to the pantry. Shouts of “Let’s fix something for Nana” and “Sistah” curdled in Blanche’s throat. Betty and Eudora began to relax. There was some family left in them, even if the instinct skipped Blanche and bloomed in the young ones, little Mayfields, whether they knew it or not.