An American Marriage

by Tayari Jones

  I was quiet as he worked over the little bowl, cracking an egg and then stirring the mixture with slow, careful strokes, like he was afraid to hurt it.

  “I’m sorry to hear this,” I said, embarrassed for even asking about the phone. “I’m sorry to hear it has been so hard.”

  He sighed again. “I get by, mostly.”

  I sat down at the kitchen table and watched Big Roy cook. The years had clearly grabbed him by the throat. He was the same age as my own father, give or take, but his back was stooped and wrinkles pulled at the corners of his mouth. This is the face of a man who has loved too hard.

  I compared him with my own father, vain and handsome, complexion as smooth as glass. Carlos’s signature gold chain was sort of Saturday Night Fever, at least that’s how I always thought of it. But maybe he treasured it as his mother’s gift of protection. I wasn’t sure yet what it meant to me.

  Plunking the fish patties into a skillet of hot grease, Big Roy said, “You’re going to have to stay the night. Gets dark so early in the winter. It’s too late to get back on the road. Besides, you don’t look like you got another seven hours in you.”

  I crossed my arms on the table to make a nest for my heavy head. “What is going on?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

  Finally, the simple meal was served. Salmon croquettes and a side of sliced carrots. The croquettes were edible, if not good, but I didn’t have much appetite. Big Roy ate his entire meal with a short fork, even the carrots. He smiled at me from time to time, but I didn’t quite feel welcome. After dinner, I washed the dishes while he carefully poured the used cooking grease into a tin jar. We dried the dishes and put them away tag-team style, with me pausing every few minutes to see if a signal had somehow made it to my phone.

  “What time did Roy leave?” I asked.

  “Last night.”

  “So . . .” I said, doing the math.

  “He made it to Atlanta right about the time you were leaving.”

  Once everything was clean, dried, put away, and wiped down, Big Roy asked me if I drank Johnnie Walker.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Might as well.”

  At last we settled ourselves in the den, glasses in hand. I sat on the firm sofa, and he chose the big leather recliner.

  “When Olive first died, I couldn’t bring myself to lay in my own bed. For a month, I slept in this chair, leaned it back and put the footrest up. Pillow, blanket. That’s how I spent the whole night.”

  I nodded, picturing it, remembering him at the funeral, destroyed but determined. “Next to him,” Celestial had said, “I felt like a fraud.” I didn’t tell her, but Big Roy provoked the opposite reaction in me. I felt his emotions, deeper than the grave, and I understood his hopelessness, too, his longing for a woman you could never hold.

  “It took me a year to learn how to sleep without Olive, if you call what I do at night sleeping.”

  I nodded again and drank. Photos of Roy at various ages watched me from the dark-paneled walls. “How is he?” I asked. “How is Roy making out?”

  Big Roy shrugged. “As good as you could expect having spent five years locked away for something he didn’t do. He lost so much, and not only Olive. Before this, Roy was on the track, you know. He did everything he was supposed to do, got way farther than me. And then . . .”

  I flopped back in the seat. “Roy knew I was coming. Why did he take off on his own?”

  Big Roy took a judicious sip and bent his expression into something similar to a smile but not quite. “Let me start by saying that I appreciate you playing a role in my wife’s home-going. When you grabbed that other shovel, I know you were sincere. I appreciate you for that, too. I am honest right now in thanking you.”

  “You don’t have to say thank you,” I said. “I was just—”

  But then he cut me off. “But, son, I know what you’re doing. I know what you came to tell Little Roy. You got a thing going on with Celestial.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Don’t try to deny it.”

  “I wasn’t going to deny it. I was going to say that I didn’t want to discuss it with you. It’s between me and Roy.”

  “It’s between her and Roy. They are the ones married.”

  “He has been gone five years,” I said. “And we thought he had about seven more to go.”

  “But he’s out now,” Big Roy said. “Those two are legally married. Young people don’t respect the institution. But I’ll tell you, back when I married Olive, marriage was so sacred that everyone aimed for a wife that was fresh, just out of her father’s house. They tried to warn me away from her because she had a child, but I didn’t listen to nothing but my heart.”

  “Sir,” I said. “I can’t say what I think about the institution in general, but I know where things stand with me and Celestial.”

  “But you don’t know where things stand with Roy and her. That’s the only thing I care about. I don’t give a damn about you and your feelings. Only thing that matters to me is my boy.” Big Roy shifted forward; I thought he was going to hit me, but he reached for the remote and activated the television. On the screen, a chef was demonstrating some kind of miracle blender.

  I didn’t say anything for maybe a minute until the phone rang, long and loud like a fire alarm.

  “I thought you said it was disconnected.”

  “I lied,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “I wouldn’t have figured you for this,” I said, betrayed. I was tired of being subjected to the whims of fathers—Roy’s, Celestial’s, and my own. “I thought you were about honor. Your word is your bond, all of that.”

  “You know”—this time he was smiling—“I felt bad about telling you that lie, until you believed it.” Now the smile bent into a smirk. “Tell me, do I look like someone who can’t pay my bills?”

  He chuckled, low and slow, but built up momentum with every breath. I swiveled my head, looking around for hidden cameras. This day was unspooling like a romantic comedy, one in which I don’t get the girl.

  “Come on,” Big Roy said. “Sometimes all you can do is laugh.” And I did. At first, I was driven by an urge to be polite, to humor an old man, but something in my chest lubricated and I cackled like a crazy person, the way you let loose when you suspect that God isn’t laughing with you but laughing at you.

  “But let me tell you one thing more,” he said, cutting off his chuckle like water at a tap. “I’m happy to let you stay the night, but I’m asking you not to use my phone. You have been alone with Celestial for what, five years? You had all that time to make a case for yourself. Give Roy this one night. I see that you feel the need to fight for her, but let it be a fair fight.”

  “I want to check and make sure she’s all right.”

  “She’s all right. You know Roy Junior isn’t going to harm her. Besides, she knows the number. If she had something to say, she would have called you.”

  “But that could have been her calling a little while ago.”

  The elder Roy picked up the remote again like a gavel. When he shut off the television, the room was so quiet that I could hear the crickets outside. “Listen, I’m doing for Roy what your own father would do for you.”

  Celestial

  I used to see him sometimes, so I had become accustomed to the stuttered breath, the dancing hairs on my suddenly cold arms and neck. You can live with ghosts. Gloria says that her mother returned to her every Sunday morning for over a year. Gloria would be looking in the mirror rouging her lips, and over her left shoulder was her mother, freshly buried, but alive again in the glass. Sometimes she hoisted me on her hip. “Do you see your nana?” All I could see was my own reflection, ribboned and ready for Sunday school. “It’s okay,” Gloria said. “She can see you.” My father thinks this is ridiculous. His denomination, he says, is Empiricism. If you can’t count it, measure it, or gauge it with science, it didn’t happen. Gloria didn’t mind that he didn’t believe her because she enjoyed having her mirror mother
all to herself.

  I never glimpsed Roy’s face in a pan of water or scorched into a slice of toast. My husband’s ghost showed itself in the guise of other men, almost always young, haircuts Easter sharp year-round. They didn’t always share his physical attributes; no, they were as diverse as humanity. But I recognized them by the ambition that clung to their skins like spicy cologne, the slight breeze of power that stirred the air, and finally, a mourning that left my mouth tasting of ash.

  On the eve of Christmas Eve, Andre was burning up the interstate heading west, then south, to do my duty. I should have known better than to send a man to do a woman’s job. But he insisted, “Let me do this for you,” and I was relieved. I don’t know what has happened to me. I used to be brave.

  As we danced at my wedding reception, my father had said, “Let the man be the man sometimes.”

  Giddy with love and champagne, I laughed at him. “What does that even mean? Let him stand up to pee?”

  Daddy said, “At some point you will come to accept your limitations.”

  “Do you accept yours?” I asked, with challenge in my voice.

  “But of course, Ladybug. That’s what marriage teaches you.”

  And I laughed at that, too, as he spun me dizzy. “Not my marriage. It’s going to be different.”

  On the eve of Christmas Eve-Eve, I packed Andre’s overnight bag with clean clothes, blister packs of remedies in case he was struck with a headache, insomnia, or flu. Early the next morning I stood in the driveway as he rolled away, careful not to cut his wheels and hurt the lawn, December brown but alive underneath. My legs tensed like they wanted to chase him and bring him back to my warm kitchen, but my arm waved and my lips said good-bye.

  And then I went to work.

  Poupées occupied prime real estate, where Virginia Avenue crossed Highland. This neighborhood was a kind of Candy Land populated by renovated manors, adorable bungalows, cute cafes, and pricey boutiques. The ice cream parlors served generous scoops, hand-dipped by college-bound teenagers who spoke through colorful orthodontia. The only inconvenience was parking, and that was just trouble enough to make you appreciate the rest.

  Southwest Atlanta was my home, no later accidents of geography could ever change that, but sometimes I could picture Andre and me living on the northeast side of town or even in Decatur. I didn’t want a fresh start, but maybe a little breathing room would be nice. We’d have to leave Old Hickey behind, but antique magnolias thrived in the Highlands, a different energy, but we’d adjust.

  When I arrived at the store, my assistant was already there. As I booted up the computers, Tamar fitted little antlers and red noses on the poupées in the front window. I watched her steady concentration, her attention to detail, and I thought that maybe she was my better-case scenario. Prettier and ten years younger, she could play me in the movie of my life. Tamar created intricate miniature quilts for the poupées, and I told her to sign each one. They hardly sold because they were as expensive as the dolls, but I refused to let her lower the price. Know your worth, I told her. The mother of a son born the week before she finished her master’s degree at Emory, Tamar was slightly to the left of respectability, exactly where she liked to be.

  This close to Christmas, the dolls remaining in the store were like the kids who didn’t get picked for kick ball. Some of them were flawed on purpose; I made the eyebrows too thick or gave the doll a long torso with short stubby legs. Somewhere out there was a girl or boy who needed to treasure something not quite perfect. These dolls, as crooked as real children, lined the shelves like eager orphans. Only one beautiful poupée remained, adorably symmetrical, chubby-cheeked and shiny-eyed. Tamar fitted him with wings and a halo and then suspended him from the ceiling using fishing line.

  Once the display was situated, Tamar said, “Ready to rumble?”

  I consulted my watch, a gift from Andre. Old-fashioned, I wound it every morning. As pretty as a baby, it was heavy and noisy, jerking slightly as the seconds ticked. I nodded and unlocked the glass door and we were open for business.

  The store became busy, but sales were sluggish. Often someone held a doll and couldn’t quite figure out what was so disquieting and returned it to the shelf and looked away. But, as they say, I couldn’t complain. By the 25th, they would all be cozy under somebody’s tree.

  After lunch, Tamar was antsy, fluffing and patting the dolls like pillows.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked at last.

  She used her hand to indicate her magnificent bosom. “I need to pump. Seriously. In five more minutes I’m going to pop a button.”

  “Where’s the baby?”

  “He’s with my mother. I tell you, the thrill of grandbabies will make even the most refined mother forgive you for getting knocked up.” She laughed, happy with the cards in her hand.

  “Okay,” I said. “Go home and feed him. I’ll be okay here till close. But do me a favor and pick up some muslin and bring it by my place. We’ll have a holiday toast.”

  I wasn’t even done talking and she was already struggling to button her coat.

  “Do not buy the baby a pair of three-hundred-dollar sneakers,” I told her, handing over a holiday bonus. She laughed, all Christmas and light, and swore that she wouldn’t. “But I can’t promise not to buy him a leather jacket!”And then I watched my delighted could-have-been self walk out the door.

  A few hours later, I was almost ready to close when a good-looking man dressed in a tan wool coat walked into the shop, announced by a jangle of bells. He was 100 percent Atlanta, his shirt still immaculate at the end of the business day. He seemed tired but upbeat.

  “I need a gift for my daughter,” he said. “Her birthday is today. She’s seven; I need to get her something nice and I need it fast.”

  He didn’t wear a ring, so I figured him to be a weekend dad. I walked him around the shop and his eyes bounced off all the remaining dolls, the cheerful ragamuffins.

  “Are you from here?” he asked suddenly. “Are you a native?”

  I pointed at my chest. “Southwest Atlanta: born, bred, and buttered.”

  “Same here. Douglass High,” he said. “So these dolls, they look kind of ’flicted. Remember when we used to say that? I can’t put my finger on it, but all of them are kind of off. Are these the only ones you have?”

  “They are all one of a kind,” I said, protective of my creations. “There are going to be variations . . .”

  He gave a little laugh. “You can save that lie for the white people. But seriously . . .” Then he turned to the ceiling like he was searching for words and his eyes landed on the doll boy floating over our heads. “What about the one up there, dressed like an angel?” he said. “Is it for sale?”

  Before I could answer, a movement across the street caught my eye. There, across busy Virginia Avenue, stood a Roy-ghost. I had learned to suppress the startle, but this one caught me unaware because he actually looked like Roy. Not Roy when he was young. Not Roy in the future. This looked like Roy would have looked if he had never left Eloe. The never-left Roy-ghost crossed his arms over his chest like a sentry. I kept my eyes on him as long as I could, knowing that if I turned away he would vanish.

  “Do you have a ladder?” said the man. “If it’s for sale, I can pull it down.”

  “It’s for sale,” I said.

  Suddenly he sprang up like a basketball player and brought the angel to the ground. “I guess I still got it,” he said. “You wrap, right?”

  The doll favored Roy, like a lot of them do. There are some as well that look like me, that look like Andre, that look like Gloria, and Daddy. As the tall man watched, I laid the doll in a box lined with soft tissue paper. I paused, but the impatient tapping of his keys on the counter spurred me to take a breath and fasten the lid in place. It came in stages, this panic that started at my center and fanned out to the rest of me. I had just cut a length of ribbon the color of clean river water, when I couldn’t stand it any longer. Using my fingernail to brea
k the tape, I opened the box, snatching the angel boy from the paper and held his firm body to my chest.

  “You okay?” the tall man said.

  “I’m not,” I admitted.

  He looked at this watch. “What the hell,” he said with a sigh. “I’m already late. What’s going on? My ex says I suck at emotions.” Mimicking her, he squeaked, “ ‘I can’t teach you how to feel feelings!’ So I want to warn you that I’m probably about to say the wrong thing, but my intentions are good.”

  “My husband is getting out of prison.”

  He cocked his head, “Is this good news or bad news?”

  “It’s good,” I said too quickly. “It’s good.”

  “You sound like you’re on the fence,” he said. “But I feel you. It’s always a positive development for one more brother to be free.” He then quoted his favorite rapper: “ ‘Open every cell in Attica, send ’em to Africa.’ You remember that?”

  I nodded, holding on to the angel boy.

  “Take somebody like me,” he said. “Aside from a couple of knucklehead cousins, I don’t know nothing about that incarceration life. But I know about being married. Divorced people, we are the ones who know. Forget the happy ones; they have no clue. How long has he been gone?”

  “Five years,” I said.

  “Shit. Okay. That’s a long time. I went to Singapore for six months. For work. I was trying to make a living. She acted like the mortgage was going to pay itself. When I got home, the marriage was shot. Only six months.” He shook his head. “I’m just saying, don’t get your hopes up. Incarceration aside, time is the quintessential mother.” Then he held his hands out. “Can I get the doll? It’s the only good one left.”

  I ushered him out, wondering if he weren’t a ghost, too, the ghost of what could have happened but didn’t. He was my last customer for the evening. Foot traffic out front was brisk, but no one else entered the shop or even paused at the fanciful front window. I left a message for Tamar and then I closed the store early, cutting the lights as my watch jerked the minutes away.