VIII.
Your husband is a hell of a man, Eboni says to me. Paul brings the folding chair toward us and gently opens it. Your husband is a great man, Eboni repeats. All side-eye. Her voice is a stone of worship, and I shiver. What did you say your name was, I ask stupidly. A momentary blip. Everything is over her face.
IX.
Greatness is the complete absorption of all surrounding good.
X.
Tell me if I’m repeating myself. The comedian my husband actually stole this line from another funnyman, Canny Blackbottom at the Richmond Hippodrome 1963. Craw Daddy heard it, clapped his hands, and announced: That gold’s mine. He was fifth on the lineup after Canny, his belly hollowed out by the Hippodrome’s hot-sauce chicken wings and rigorous barbecue pork. When it was his turn, Craw Daddy was hissed to shame. He looked back and saw Canny watermelon-grinning in the wings. My husband the comedian straightened his tie, tightened his belt. You chitlin-circuit nigger, what the hell you got that I ain’t? My husband the comedian whispered the line a thousand times in case he might mispronounce it. Tell me if I’m repeating myself. Canny rose a fuss, but Craw Daddy ignored him. He made that line his own. He considered it merely borrowing.
XI.
His career took off—money blew up like the Fourth of July. The ’60s, ’70s, ’80s were a filament of cars, boats, houses, massive vacations. One time we took a riverboat down the Egyptian Nile, another we saw wild elephants tango-dance outside our hotel window in Nairobi. Occasionally there were diamonds and Russell Stover chocolate hearts and American Beauties in a Waterford vase—I didn’t mind them at all. I remembered his words. At the start of the Complaints, people predicted his career would take a beating. Luckily the only aftershock I can recall was the loss of hearth home dignity courage and imagination. And it is scientifically proven you can rise back to the surface without any of those trappings.
XII.
Paul grumbles something into Eboni’s ear, then takes off again, slue-footed as a Norfolk penguin. She is left to rummage through a patent leather purse draped across her chest, its strap hooking itself onto the varsity badge. I had not seen the purse earlier, and for reasons I cannot ascertain in the moment, I smile. Sunday school, Easter parade, cotillion drag. Warmth fills my body. I want to share that warmth. I myself was Delta Sigma Theta through and through: Don’t ask me bout my hair and I won’t tell (inside joke); I want to inquire about her days here at Hampton, to say something innocuous about how sororities must have changed since my time—but just as quick she snaps shut the purse and stares straight ahead. There is a key in her hands. It is pulled through her index and middle fingers, and it is something like a gun. That baby your grandkid, she asks. When I nod, she hoists the gun up to her lips.
XIII.
Why you crying? What have I done to make you sad? Parthenia. Baby Girl. We’ve lived all over this great green country!
This is what he told me after the Beverly Hills house was auctioned.
No sense in crying, Parthenia. What matters most is the home in our heart.
This was said as a comfort. After the fourth Complaint, we had to give up Boca Raton and Savannah too, plus my Van Cleef and all the damn Christofle.
XIV.
Historically he has always been a taker and a giver. Craw Daddy gave my parents just enough to ease their arms from around my shoulders. He took me when I wasn’t looking. He gave a nearly sober speech at our wedding banquet, the one where some of the Sable-Tea Club ladies came to pay respects, handing over lavender sachets with ten-dollar bills sewn inside. He gave them his hand. Yes I do swear to honor and obey this high society gal (the Sable-Tea ladies may have detected a bit of sass in that vow), Yes I am forever grateful she deigned look upon my face. Craw Daddy rose from the ashes of poverty to claim me: I, who under normal circumstances would not have set foot on Something Street to save my life. What is greatness if not that?
XV.
Outside, our driver waits for us in the parking lot off Shore Drive. His name is Clarence, a name the comedian my husband finds perfect in its old-fashioned darkyness (Craw Daddy’s actual words were At least he ain’t got one of these fake African bullshit monikers, though I’ve always dreamed of asking him what sort of name he considers Marquita, an appellation his mother—on her deathbed—forced upon our firstborn). Clarence the driver is likely on his cell phone, calling home, finding out supper; he couldn’t be bothered with the farewell tour. He couldn’t be bothered with the famed Ogden Hall of Hampton University (née Institute), although he might pause and gaze balefully in our direction and think of millions of dollars lining his imaginary mattress, dollars he might could’ve had if he’d played his cards right (wasn’t his cousin doing standup at the Newport News Laugheteria? Next month Las Vegas?)—Clarence might see in his mind’s eye the way Craw Daddy strides up to the edge of the stage and begins his stories; he might see me propping myself in the curtains (the folding chair was too hard), the pram rocking under my hand, the grandson left to us by my third-born daughter as a wanton gift; he might not give a good goddamn. He might feel sorry for not acting the man earlier, when I was in his car.
Clarence will whip out a cigarette or joint, open his phone, scour personal ads, think up lottery numbers.
What’s the baby’s name, the girl Eboni asks me. Somehow I have learned that she is a grown woman, all of thirty years old, and that the boy is her husband. Her exact words were I should thank you for thinking me younger, but I’ll just chalk it up to you being blind as a bat, Mrs. Craw Daddy. Why do you got your grandbaby here?
XVI.
The boy comes up from behind suddenly with a large swivel desk chair, which Eboni guides me into. My body is nearly too large for this seat but I do not say anything; I have grown old as gracefully as necessary. I hold out my hand to the boy, but he does not take it—manners clearly elude this specimen. Never mind him, Eboni says. Why don’t you sit, Mrs. Craw Daddy? Sitting will make it easier.
She undoes the scarf around her neck. The area there is black as a banana peel: a hickey, a testament to youthful love. I have no idea where that key has got to.
XVII.
Moses, I wanted to call him, the day I opened the front door of our present rental apartment in Aberdeen Gardens and found a baby swaddled in a basket—though the name our third-born daughter had given him in the attached note was different. Something in between Africa and Europe, a name meant to sound unique but that actually had the ring of homemade commons to it. [. . .] will save you, the note read. Treat him better than you did your own girls.
XVIII.
Times past, Ogden Hall has been host to some of the finest black entertainers of the country; it is a killer diamond that’s lived through the weight of history, all those marchers and protesters and mindblown soldiers of the ’70s. I started out in 1955 but didn’t actually finish my degree until I returned in 1974. Bit of a wait in the middle there, what with kids, house, houses, Craw Daddy’s fame. The Complaints. Each time I was a student here, I was not a troublemaker. I did not wear an Afro, nor did I burn my cotillion gowns. Ogden Hall counts itself lucky to invite the comedian my husband back every few years and have him actually come. They were saddened by the idea of a farewell tour but nonetheless welcomed him with outstretched arms. They have no idea we’ve lost everything, that the comedian my husband accepts every invite happily, including the retirement homes and dinner theaters. The Complaints are to blame, but what’s a woman to do?
XIX.
Once upon a time there was dark-as-night wide-hipped sassy-lipped Mama Love and her famous flat iron. She was my mama, and she raised us all on Something Street. Craw Daddy walks the stage as he narrates, gesticulating wildly, waving that flat iron in faces, sticking his hand round the waists of barrel-bodied women, pointing make-believe shotguns at no-count lotharios, rubbing sleep from the eyes of drunks. Something Street is alive. Somehow Mama Love’s flat iron—which had started out that day straightening his si
ster Flayla’s nappy head—wants, in the end, to smack some sense into Craw (her only boy-child, who’d innocently asked the meaning of the word dyke). Loads of laughter. Before the first blow can be administered, the flat iron mysteriously takes wing and sails into the sky, never to be seen again. All the while Flayla’s eyes screw themselves deeper into her undone head. Whatever could that child be guilty of? Just then Butchy Barbara looms her head over the windowsill and smirks. Wanna kiss, baby? We ain’t got nothing to lose! Where in tarnation did she come from? The crowd just about dies.
XX.
In my second year as a coed at Hampton Institute, the great Mahalia Jackson took this same stage. She sang only one song. But all around her: the hush of greatness, of legacy. Thoughts buzzing in grateful heads: How did we get here? How shall we remain? Are we witnessing the Negro’s progress and legacy?All manner of monumental thoughts. I was already attached to Craw Daddy. I put my hands over my ears.
XXI.
Ya’ll want to hear bout Mama Love and her twelve disobedient children and her ne’er-do-well mate, Drunky Poppy? Or do y’all want to hear about Mama Love and her thieving neighbor, Miss Hattie-No-Goody, who had a habit of tasting Mama’s pies on the sill? Tell me, y’all, if you heard those ones before!
The comedian my husband holds up his hand: Okay, okay, let’s be serious for a moment. Without Mama Love and the kind of upbringing she instilled in me, I would not be standing before you today. Can I get an AMEN ? I, a God-fearing man with a heart of pure gold and a lovely bride of fifty-four years—Hey, Parthenia, whyn’t you come out and meet my new friends? Praise God, but shouldn’t we all have been raised by a woman like Mama Love?
(A side whisper: That is, if we remember to put the cast-iron pan inside our britches for protection, seeing how Mama Love could swat you for days, and the lack of that pan meant certain death of the booty, so can I get an AMEN ?)
The audience falls out their seats, bits and pieces of their limbs shattering on the tile floor. They don’t wait for me to come out; I become an afterthought before I can even be. In 1956 the song Mahalia Jackson performed was “Move On Up a Little Higher.” She walked past me as the applause enveloped her, slow and belligerent like an autumn cocoon. She did not lift her eyes.
XXII.
First intermission: I leave the sleeping baby in the back and wander the aisles. The audience aren’t finished slapping their knees, wiping away mirthful tears, coughing into wadded-up tissues. They slowly re-form themselves as the lights go up, turning toward one another and repeating the best bits. Hey, you seen Craw Daddy’s show in Atlanta? He had us rolling in the aisles with Mama Love and the wheelbarrow. Shit, yeah, Craw Daddy brung down the house there! Mama Love make me want to pee my drawers! Every. Damn. Time.
In the midst of this, someone dares mention the Complaints—a woman, of course. Eyebrows are raised. Faces turned toward her with scorn. Why you have to go and mention that, Gladys? Why even bring that shit up? Let the man have one night free and clear, now is not the time for that shit.
The woman Gladys says something along the lines of Well, if it was my man out there doing that, and they shut her down instantly. Close your got-damn trap, Gladys. You bought a ticket same as us. He is our man, he will always be our man.
XXIII.
Backstage, the comedian my husband is suddenly standing next to me, gulping down the glass of gin or water. Eboni stands in his shadow with his seersucker jacket over her left arm. With her right, she reaches down and scratches the back of her knee. I see that. I see her glance at her shoes, then straighten her jumper, then reach back down to that tender spot. She doesn’t see me seeing her. But I do. The back of the knee can be the most telltale part of the body. There is the banana black of her neck, but that means nothing to the soft mattress of her knee. I am frustrated to be completely out of tears.
XXIV.
Girl, go get my wife something cold to drink, you see she about to faint, ain’t you? Go to the fridge in my dressing room, hear? It’s some refreshments there.
To me he winks. Child’s an idjit, Parthenia. He waits a few heartbeats. Let me go find her and make sure she don’t get the order wrong. I’m so sorry about before, Parthenia, you know it’s not in me to hit a woman. Not even you. I have no idea what got into me back there in the car, but I swear if I hurt you I got no reason to stand like a man. Forgive me?
I nod. He does not have a dressing room. There is no fridge.
You, you, you, you, you.
XXV.
Ten minutes pass. The pair returns without my drink. Out of ancient habit I kiss Craw’s cheek.
He hangs his big head into the pram. Be careful, little buddy, he says to the baby; then tells me he has to sail off to hair and makeup; he swears he needs more lightening cream. More Old Spice aftershave. Looks to Eboni and nods. I have seen many fans, many autograph-seekers, many groupies, if you will. I know the silence that overtakes them in the presence of greatness. She and him leave once more, and perhaps fifteen new minutes go by; when the comedian my husband returns—alone—his face is pure ravishment. Red pimples under graham cracker skin, the shine of battered delight. I know that look. A bargain is a bargain. But I know that look. Little buddy, he whispers into the pram, this one day gonna be you. And I’m a lead the way.
XXVI.
All her life our third-born had been the sweetest of the three, hanging on to her father’s every word, attaching herself to his leg as he walked, baking him cakes even when it wasn’t his birthday. When she became a teenager, however, she took a different route. I would come home from a day of shopping and find Craw and Joanna at each other’s throats; or else, late at night, we would find Joanna and her friends keying the cars in one of the driveways. The patio tables of every house were shattered with bottles of Ole Grandad and Lancers wine. Swear words galore. Drugs, powders, hypodermic needles, spoons. The comedian my husband said the girl was out her damn mind. His exact words. One time in Atlanta Joanna yelled up the stairs, You want to screw Rochelle? Well, get this, old man: you ain’t her type! Her exact words.
Craw Daddy ran down and grabbed Joanna by the scruff. Everything about you abominates me to no end! You faster than a junkyard dog! Out here doing these drugs and out here to ruin my reputation. You and that slut Rochelle! What you thinking, girl?
(Rochelle, Joanna’s best friend in Atlanta. A year younger in high school, pretty as a nectarine. Why in heavens would my daughter say such a thing? When things blew over, I told the girls I would take them shopping at Lenox Square, but Rochelle’s parents would later tell me I was not appropriate.)
She mines and not yours, Joanna answered, to which she saw the back of Craw’s hand. I did not like that one bit. I told my husband the comedian that he needed to stop hitting our third-born, that she was our flesh and bones, and after he landed another swop, he did.
(The Complaints were just a trickle on the horizon, nothing to get worked up about. Nevertheless I was left wondering: How does he know Rochelle is a slut?)
XXVII.
During second intermission, Craw Daddy disappears into the aisles to sign early autographs. The baby wakes, and I bend to lift him into my arms. He is not our first grandparent rodeo, this boy. Marquita, our firstborn, has a brood of boys almost large enough to fill the front row center. Several years ago her (Howard University—sigh) husband literally whisked her off her Spelman feet and landed her not a mile from our alma mater in bare toes and bulging belly.
Now there are six grands that direction—oh, what the Sable-Tea Club ladies would have said! Back in the day, two was their perfect number. Two became the new one (one being a slavery number, as my mam used to observe); some years later, when my girls were grown, three became the new two. And shortly after that, five became the new three. Five is comfort, ambition, confidence. I believe that even my mam would not have frowned upon five. But six? Six is a descent back toward field days, God help us!
No matter. I loved those babies like
I love myself until Marquita one day up and said, He’s not allowed here anymore, Mom. I want different for my boys.
My mam no longer walks the earth. She’s buried in Wartburg Cemetery, Mount Vernon, New York, right next to Daddy, who was lifted into his casket wearing his Pullman’s uniform, God bless him.
Our second-born, Winifred, thought at first that the Complaints were a “racialist” attack of some sort. She wondered whether white comedians suffered the same sorts of condemnation. Winifred held her father’s arm as we walked up and down the courthouse steps. After we lost the Atlanta house to a “fire” in 2000 (the police said they thought it was arson but had nothing real to go on) Winifred took a moment for herself, a timeout, she called it. She has not spoken to her father since.
I want to say Her loss in the way my husband says Her loss when he references Winifred—but the words stick in my throat. She and I began communicating on the q.t. A shopping mall here, a Baskin-Robbins there. Craw knew nothing. Winifred and I met at Buckroe Beach; she brought her three girls, whom I immediately doted upon with ice cream sandwiches and neon fizzle pop. Children can be such gems, I said. They are always the apple of their grandparents’ eyes. Winifred wasn’t having any of it. Mother, she said (in her usual two-pronged manner), it’s only a matter of time. You’re better than this.
The Best American Short Stories 2020 Page 16
