Genesis Begins Again

by Alicia D. Williams

  Troy perks up. “It is a big deal. Bigger than football and basketball for a lot of people.”

  “That’s because we have teams that suck at defense,” Sophia says. “What? That’s what my brother says,” she adds when Troy groans, “Heyyyyy.”

  “Our teams are decent. And to answer your question,” Troy goes on, “the PTA rolls out a red carpet and decorates as if it’s a music awards show.”

  “Yeah,” Sophia agrees, all enthusiastic. “Plus, they have a bunch of noisemakers and paparazzi. All the drama queens hang out front hogging up the spotlight.”

  “What’s the prize? A trophy?” I ask.

  “Yeah, plus they get a write-up in the school paper and sometimes the Farmington News. They don’t win money, but the PTA makes this huge gift basket. Last year they had an Xbox with games and stuff. I wish I won; my dad won’t buy me a gaming system.”

  “Really? Who won last year?”

  “This guy named Joel. He was amazing,” Sophia raves. “He did some kind of balance slash juggling act. You would’ve thought he grew up in a circus. After he won, everybody treated him like he was a real celebrity.”

  “Yeah, he was good,” Troy tells me. “Thinking about auditioning?”

  “Me? Naw, I just keep hearing about it, that’s all.”

  “You can come see me, then. I always play my violin,” says Troy.

  “You play the violin?” The violin. I wonder if kids ever blasted him for playing that white people’s instrument, but actually . . . I think it’s kinda cool. Shoot, I wish Grandma could meet him, Troy being so good in math will punch a big fat hole in her grandpa’s tradition theory. I ask, “How come you never mentioned the violin?”

  “What do I say? ‘Hi, I’m Troy. I’m a Virgo, and I play the violin.’ ” Sophia and I burst out laughing. A librarian shushes us. “Plus, I haven’t won yet, and notice I said, ‘yet.’ ”

  Before we leave the library, I ask the librarian to make a copy of the cover of Billie Holiday’s book. Normally, I don’t take the time to hang up posters, but I want to decorate my walls with singers, sort of like Mrs. Hill’s classroom—even though Todd’s note is a big ol’ clue that it won’t stay up too long. I also check out a book about this other singer who’s mentioned in Billie’s biography: Ella Fitzgerald. Who knows, if I like her, then she’ll go up on the wall too. If there’s time.

  Wednesday night, I keep an eye on the front door while Mama and I catch an episode of American Idol, and even though it’s good, it’s hard to focus on it because . . . well, Dad. He’s never been gone longer than two days, as far as I know. What if he comes home ready to drink his vodka? What if he goes off with his stupid teasing? Or empty his pockets with his winnings, argue with Mama, and plead for another chance. If he comes home. I need a distraction. So I brush Mama’s hair. The more I brush, the more I relax. Mama finally relaxes too.

  For a moment, my mind even wonders about—of all things—that guy Joel. He could’ve been a cornball, outcast, or a regular dude, but once he won the talent contest, kids treated him like a celebrity. A celebrity.

  “Hello? Genesis? Hey, the brush hasn’t gone through my hair in a minute.” Mama leans her head back, looking at me upside down. “Wow, your chin is almost back to normal.” She then asks, “So, what’s up?”

  “Sorry.” I nudge her head back down and start brushing again. And I tell her all about the talent show.

  “A talent show? Really?”

  She pats the cushion next to her. “Are you trying out?”

  “Uh-uh. I was hoping to go watch, that’s all.” I come from behind the couch and settle down beside her. Then we go on talking as if our lives are oh-so-great, ignoring the big elephant stomping around the room, or, more specifically not stomping around the room.

  “You know,” Mama says, picking up the remote, “I remember wanting to audition for a talent show. Modern dance was what I wanted to do.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Scared.”

  Now I’m wishing I could tell Mama that I sorta want to audition, but I’m too scared to. Scared to sing in front of everybody, especially after the chorus incident. Scared my voice isn’t good enough. And scared, yes, I have to admit—scared they’ll call me Ape or Blackie. But I’m even scared to tell my mom that!

  So I tell her nothing as we watch TV, each of us keeping one eye on the door.

  Mama’s phone rings, and she hops up to answer it. It’s Tootsie, and that means a lengthy conversation. The idea of me possibly auditioning gets me excited, so I take this opportunity to slip into her room and borrow her foundation. I tie my shirt over my head and make a ponytail. This shirt is my real crowning glory. Dang, I wish one of my songs was playing on the radio. Might as well load the player with the Ella Fitzgerald CD that I borrowed from Mrs. Hill. It doesn’t take long for me to realize that even though the music’s old, there’s something . . . stylish, yeah that’s the word, and rich about her voice. She’s not as mellow and deep as Billie, but fun and upbeat. Ella sings about funny Valentines, Paris, and summertime. Happy stuff.

  But like Billie, Ella gets me singing too. I don’t know if Ella flips her hair, but I do. I whip my long hair, flick my scraped-up wrist, and let a hand rest on my hip. I wink and wave to my audience as they scream my name. My skin glows just like Regina’s, Nia’s, and Belinda’s. I don’t care about our family’s history or Dad’s issues. Nothing matters. Not now.

  The clapping’s thunderous, like a tornado blasting through Kansas. Its echo vibrates up my back, and I sweep into a bow of acknowledgment. Gratitude. I bow to the left, I bow to the right, and then everything goes into slow motion, because as I look up, there, in my doorway, stands Dad. A crooked smile snakes its way up the left side of his mouth.

  Dad tilts his head to one side, appraising me, then says, “Well, well, well . . .” He calls out, “Sharon, you need to see this.”

  I could run to the bathroom, but he might block the door. The closet? He’ll come there, too. Dad studies the black shirt draped on my head. I snatch it off.

  “No, leave it. It’s finally long, just like you want, right?”

  So much for those doggone alcoholic meetings.

  Only seconds ago I was gorgeous and amazing. Even glowing. Glowing! I wipe my face with my sleeve, leaving tan streaks across my shirt.

  “Don’t let me stop you. Go on with the show,” Dad says with an ugly eagerness. Ella’s joyful voice mockingly drones on and on in the background.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve—” Mama’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, and I drop my head.

  “I know I was wrong . . . ,” Dad says. “But look, your daughter’s been performing in white face. Chubby Cheeks, go on, put that thing back on yo’ head . . . show her. . . .”

  Lord, please let me die right now. Let me pass out right here.

  “Emory—” Mama’s at a loss for words, but suddenly her eyes go steely. “You’re . . . you’re stinking drunk!”

  Mama’s fists are balled, and her face is flaming. And there’s nothing he can say that’ll convince her to let go of four days’ worth of anger.

  “You lied again! And you don’t even call? You leave me worried and—” Mama holds up her hand, stopping Dad’s next line. “Not. A. Word.” Sometimes I wish she’d go off off, carry a baseball bat and smash stuff up like Beyoncé in her “Hold Up” video. But no, she was raised a “lady,” whatever the heck that means. Still, Mama’s so composed, it’s scary—so scary that not even Dad knows how to react.

  “Wait,” he finally says, already breaking out his pleading voice. He takes out his wallet, and pulls out a slip of paper. “See, I paid the rent.” He holds up the receipt.

  Even though I’m desperately wanting to disappear, my heart starts singing. He paid the rent! We can stay! Then my mind flashes to Todd’s note. If he’s paid the rent, then why did we get the notice? Maybe the note came before he paid! Of course, that’s it. There’s no need for me to even worry about it
anymore. He came through. Dad really came through.

  “So, Gen-Gen, what you practicin’ fo’?” Dad turns to Mama, asking, “Can I at least hear the girl sing?”

  Now I’m back to mad, so mad at Dad for—for dogging me out like this.

  Mama scowls for about ten seconds, then pushes past him and goes straight to my dresser. “Genesis, pack a bag.” But my feet won’t budge. Part of me wants to stop her and plead that Dad . . . yes, he was gone, but he paid the rent. A part of me wants to remind her that she said she didn’t ever wanna go dragging bags back to Grandma’s like a failure. But the rest of me, the rest of me is so—confused. Until . . . until Dad starts back egging me to perform. And now I hope that Mama finds the note, then he’ll be the one under the spotlight.

  “Stop it, just stop it!” Mama suddenly yells at him. She yanks open my drawer and thrusts some pajamas into my hand. “Pack whatever you need,” she orders, and storms to her room.

  “Wait a minute, Sharon—” Dad says, his voice garbled. “This was my last chance to go all out . . . ’cause I’m gon’ commit, fully commit, to that program,” he ends with a bellow.

  Ever since I was little, I’ve replayed in my head the times when we sang together—just him and me. I believed that something real was hidden somewhere deep under all the layers, the drunkenness. And yeah, mostly when I trust him, he says something mean, makes me want to hate him. But then there are those times . . . those times when he says the right words, letting me know that I’m his baby girl. “Dad?”

  He turns and smiles, not a mean one. But a simple, drunk smile.

  I waver, but force myself to boss up. I don’t even know what to say, so I stutter, “I, uh . . . uh . . .” Gosh, why can’t I ever find the right words to say?

  Dad sways from side to side, saying, “What? Cat got your tongue?” Then he howls with laughter. “Get it?” He howls till tears run down his face. Howls until he has a coughing attack, and I hope he chokes to death. Finally, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stumbles out of my room.

  That stupid joke wasn’t even funny.

  I wash the stupid makeup off my face. I use half the bar of soap. My eyes are burning. I wash till the tiny scabs on my chin peel off. I wash till my face feels raw. Dad’s laughter keeps blowing through my chest like a Joe Louis punch. So I keep washing.

  After forever, I shut off the water. See my hands. My black hands. My feet. My black feet. Black and dirty. Filthy. I hate it! Then I see it—there in the corner, a jug of bleach—

  “Genesis!” Mama calls. “We’re leaving. Now!”

  eighteen

  We’re halfway down the front steps when Dad calls out, “You really gon’ leave?” Like me, he’s stunned that Mama’s threats are finally coming true. “You going to yo’ mama’s,” he snorts, stumbling again. He grabs hold of the railing, straightening himself. “You goin’ there, knowing how she is. She’s gon’ put you down, then what?”

  Mama opens the car door, not daring a single glance at him. Dad’s usually as tall as a tree, but now he looks small. Yet nothing’s small about his voice, especially as he shouts how Mama’s breaking her vows, how her daddy would be ashamed, and that soon we’ll be back. And now all these white folks are opening their doors, peeking out.

  We ride in silence. The radio is on, but I can’t recall which songs have been playing. Dad’s right. Grandma berates Mama—always. How does she stand it? Shoot, if I had some money, I’d have Mama drive us to a fancy hotel just to get away from everything. I really wish this, especially when we park in front of Grandma’s house and Mama breaks down. I mean, really breaks down. The car’s not even turned off before she’s banging on the steering wheel, fists pounding so hard I’m afraid it’ll snap off. She lets out a sob so deep that it sounds like it’s been trapped inside her forever.

  That’s when it occurs to me. Mama’s stuck. Between Dad’s issue of keeping us on the move, and Grandma scaring her with marriage vow scriptures, and Mama needing to prove to Grandma that she didn’t make a mistake in marrying Daddy—and me. She can’t do anything. Or go anywhere. Dang-ee.

  My mama’s tough. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen her cry. And all those times combined don’t come close to this. I suspect that I’m not supposed to see this. It feels way too private. Mamas probably don’t want their kids to see them lose it. But I’m not about to leave her alone, either. So I rub her back lightly.

  Dad. If he only knew. But no, he’s probably searching the cabinets for his stupid bottles of liquor right now, finding them missing. Good. At least I ain’t there to hear about it. And I hope he’s too drunk to remember.

  “I’m okay,” Mama says at last, wiping her face with her jacket sleeve, looking at me with red, watery eyes.

  We both know Mama is not okay. And she should know that she doesn’t need to make me feel better, not for being real. Not for finally putting her foot down.

  After we ring Grandma’s bell, she unlocks all the locks, cracks open the door, and starts right on in—just like last time. “Lord ah mercy, Sharon, y’all evicted already? For heaven’s sake.” Grandma keeps right on with her scolding, not knowing how long it took for Mama to get the courage to come in the first place. She keeps right on going, not even noticing how puffy Mama’s eyes are.

  I want to go straight to Mama’s old room and rock myself to sleep. But Mama looks so beaten down, and Grandma’s badgering doesn’t stop.

  “Lord knows we raised you better . . .” On and on she drills, not caring what we’ve been through or understanding that we just can’t do this. Not now.

  And I don’t mean to be rude or insolent when I interrupt, “Grandma?”

  She turns to me, as if finally noticing I’m in the room. “What is it?” she says, annoyed.

  “She’s tired.” I add, “We’re tired.”

  It’s only then that she looks at both of us, really takes us in and says, “I see. Why don’t you both go on to bed.”

  We do, but neither of us sleeps. We wrestle with our own thoughts. Most likely, Mama’s replaying every moment, maybe even questioning her leaving. Me? I’m questioning if I’ll be able to go back to Farmington Oaks tomorrow and what Dad’s face will look like after finding no vodka. I’m hoping Grandma doesn’t rehash last week’s conversation. I even wonder if Sophia and her family eat stuff like asparagus for dinner . . . what was it that Yvette wanted to ask me . . . Troy, he’s such a good tutor . . . and dang . . . Mama got the car keys . . . and we were ghost . . . she pulled out the keys . . . and we . . . we . . .

  Light streams through the curtains. Shoot, I don’t even remember falling asleep. I roll over, expecting to feel Mama’s back, but she’s not there. I lie still, listening for her voice. Nothing. I get up and mosey to the kitchen, and Grandma’s at the table with the phone in her hand.

  “Where’s my mom?” I ask, forcing back my agitation. It feels weird to be around Grandma after everything she told me last time I was here. “She didn’t wake me up!” I glance at the clock; it’s almost nine. “I don’t have to go to school?”

  “I don’t suppose you can go walking in there this late without a parent, can you? And your mother, she must’ve left at the crack of dawn because I’ve been up since six.” Grandma dials a number. “She’s not answering her phone, either. What exactly happened last night?”

  I offer Grandma a light version minus Dad’s four day gambling binge, drinking, and teasing, no need to give her all the details.

  “Hmph, that doesn’t make sense. But at least she’s making some decisions. I just wish she’d call me back.”

  Like always, Grandma assigns me chores: dusting and polishing. When I get to the picture frames of her old dead relatives, I barely touch her father and grandfather. The only one I dust well is her sister, Elizabeth. The rest of the day goes as if Mama didn’t walk out on Dad for the first time: TV for Grandma, homework for me, and three calls from Dad intercepted by Grandma. I ain’t trying to talk to him, I’m still too
mad to hear his voice and too scared he’ll ask about his liquor.

  Mama comes back about six o’clock, and Grandma doesn’t even hesitate before playing detective.

  Grandma: Where have you been? I’ve been calling you every hour.

  Mama: I needed to sort things out.

  Grandma: You couldn’t’ve done that here? You could’ve at least told me.

  Mama: Sorry.

  Grandma: Why’d you leave in the first place? The story Genesis told me doesn’t make a lick of sense.

  Mama:

  Grandma: Tomorrow we’re going to church, and I’m going to have the pastor pray over you. It’ll do you some good.

  Mama:

  Was Grandma like this the whole time Mama was growing up? Geesh. She harasses Mama so much that Mama gets the keys and leaves the house again. Grandma calls out to ask where she’s going this time, and Mama answers, “To breathe.”

  Friday morning Mama’s gone again, so Grandma takes her nagging out on me. To get away from her grumblings, I go over my homework. Afterward, when she starts back complaining, I voluntarily busy myself with cleaning. Now I’m hiding out in the basement, pulling towels from the dryer. Mama must’ve finally come back, because as I’m hauling the laundry basket up the stairs, I hear Grandma saying, “Well, I’m not going to tell you I told you so because you already know that.”

  Should I run up the steps and stop Grandma’s madness before Mama walks out for a third time—leaving me here?

  Before I even decide, Grandma goes on. “No, I didn’t mean that.” She clears her throat and begins again. “What I’m trying to say is . . . when I see you hurt . . . I hurt.”

  “Ma,” Mama says, trying to interrupt.