“But why not let Uncle Darnell drive you?”
“I need to walk,” Cecile said.
“There’s Klan out there,” I told her.
“There’s Klan everywhere,” Cecile said. “You just have to see them.”
I knew she’d said something truthful and important, but that kind of truth wasn’t on my mind. I said, “I’ll worry you’re out there in the night.”
“You’re twelve, Delphine. I’m grown. Go and be with your sisters. Lie down. Dream a dream. Say good-bye to anyone who’d care and thank everyone who was kind to me. Be good, Delphine. And take care of yourself. Take care of you.”
She wrapped her arms around me, then kissed me on the top of my head, probably to let me know she was taller and that I had a ways to go before catching up. I watched her leave. And so did Caleb. This time he didn’t sing his song, but he let out a whimper.
I knew my mother was grown but I couldn’t let her go into the night, walking up the road like she was on the west side of Oakland. I went inside and found Uncle Darnell and Pa asleep next to each other, which meant Mrs. was sleeping with Big Ma in her room. I bent down and said, “Cecile left. She’s walking down the road.”
Pa turned over. “I’ll get the Wildcat.”
But Uncle Darnell sat up quickly and said a firm “No,” like he was the older brother. “I’ll get the truck. I’ll take her and sit with her at the airport.”
Pa started to say something, but Uncle Darnell said it again. “No, Lou. Stay here.” And he was gone.
Act of God
I told my sisters Cecile had left. I said her plane left in the middle of the night and she had to catch it. They must have known I was spinning straw, but I didn’t want them to think she left us like she had before, when I was four, Vonetta was two, and Fern wasn’t even a month old. The house howled and cried for days. But that was mainly Vonetta filling the house with her yowling. Fern cried and cried, but I learned to put the bottle in her mouth and her baby doll next to her, even though she was too little to know she had a doll.
Wishing for Cecile to stay was as good as throwing a wish away on prayers that had been answered. We already had the impossible. Our mother had found her way to Ma Charles’s house in Alabama, even when the idea of her being here was as crazy as the thought of men hopping around like kangaroos on the Goodnight, Moon. And yet, she showed up. She was there for Vonetta, Fern, and me. It seemed wrong to cry over her leaving, even though it had never occurred to us that she would actually leave. This time we didn’t howl and cry for days like when we were little. But we still cried.
Big Ma poked her head in our room to see what the sniffling was about and found us sobbing on the two beds pushed into one.
“Stop all that crying. We have a lot to be thankful for, starting with being under this roof Elijah Lucas rebuilt. Not everyone has their home standing and in living order, you know. Now go wash your faces and help me get things ready. Delphine, I need you to peel potatoes for hash browns and you’re in here leading your sisters in the criers’ choir. Come on. Come on, now.”
And just like that, we got up and started moving. Just like we did when Big Ma had come to take over on Herkimer Street.
As much as I wanted to be seated and to enjoy my family, I was glad to have busy hands. The mention of cheese grits made Mrs. woozy but I just kept cooking and serving. And peeking at my family. Watching us all be together at the table. In fact, Fern gave thanks to Mr. Lucas for making our roof sturdy so we could all be underneath it.
Mr. Lucas said, “Ophelia, please sit down and enjoy this meal.”
“Oh, no. So much to do,” Big Ma said.
Then Mr. Lucas said, “Woman, I said, sit down.”
The surprised and jokey sounds that sprang up from everyone but Mrs. were enough to bring the house down. Then Ma Charles shook her tambourine to be heard and the room quieted.
“Listen here, son,” she told Mr. Lucas, who was instantly cowed. “Only two people can tell this woman what to do: her ma and her husband. Unless you’re her husband you can’t tell her a thing.”
Mrs. gasped in horror. “This isn’t 1869.” She had more to say but Pa took her hand and Miss Trotter said, “Hush, young’n.”
Big Ma might have been embarrassed—I wasn’t sure—and fled into the kitchen. Then Mr. Lucas stood up like he was going after her.
Ma Charles said to Mr. Lucas, “Son, you stay with us. Eat with us. Sleep on this sofa until your house is built up. Heaven knows we were saved from that tornado by an act of God, and that you’ve built our house up strong over the years.”
Mr. Lucas didn’t move. He knew to wait for the other shoe to drop. “Yes, Ma.”
“But as long as I have an unmarried daughter under this very roof you rebuilt, your place is out here with the rest of us. When you’re married you can always go in the kitchen or down the hall to see about your wife.”
Mr. Lucas sat down.
Between my sisters and me “oohing,” our father, uncle, and cousin slapping hands, and Miss Trotter cackling, the house was lit up with laughter. I couldn’t believe my ears. My great-grandma told the man who’d rebuilt her house that he had to marry my grandmother. I took the gravy bowl back into the kitchen, where I found Big Ma fluttering and grinning. She shooed me out of the kitchen and said she’d be there with more gravy.
Just as I returned to my chair, Mr. Lucas told my great-grandmother, “I’ll go to the courthouse in the morning, Ma.”
Mrs. seemed outraged and confused by the whole thing. She stood up. “But no one asked Mother Gaither what she—” and Ma Charles said nicely, “You hush up, little missus, and take care of what’s cooking in your pot. Get off your feet and hush up.”
My father said to Mr. Lucas, “Can’t just show up to the courthouse without a bride.”
Mrs. still didn’t like any of it and refused to eat in a house full of “wrong-thinking people with male-chauvinist-pig ideas.” Miss Trotter clapped her hands at all of that chauvinism talk. She thought those words were just grand. Pa put his finger to his lips instead of outright telling Mrs. to hush like Ma Charles did.
When the hoopla died down a bit, Mr. Lucas said to my father, “You’re right about that, son. Can’t go to the courthouse without a bride.”
Finally Big Ma came out of the kitchen with a full gravy boat. Mr. Lucas stood up, cleared his throat, and said to Big Ma, “Ophelia Gaither . . .”
Her mother said, “Charles. She’s a Charles.”
Her aunt said, “And by blood, a Trotter.”
Fern said, “And a Fern!”
Mr. Lucas shook his head at the ordeal, took in a big breath, and exhaled before trying again. “Ophelia Fern Charles Gaither from the Trotters, will you come with me to the courthouse and sign some papers?”
Big Ma said, “I don’t know why we have to make a grand Negro spectacle out of everything. I’ll get my hat.”
Miss Trotter said, “The courthouse!” showing all her teeth. “Hear that, sister? Legal.”
“Under God, sister. Godly,” the other said.
Maypop and Dandelion
Big Ma and Mr. Lucas returned with their courthouse papers, only to find Vonetta and Fern practicing their walk down a make-believe church aisle in the living room. Vonetta looked more like Frankenstein than a flower girl, limping and lugging her white-casted arm while Fern imitated her so there would be two Frankenstein flower girls. Both had missed out on being Pa and Mrs.’s flower girls. No one would deny them their only chance.
I expected Big Ma to put an end to Vonetta and Fern’s traipsing and prancing but she said she was tired and needed to sit down.
Ma Charles and Miss Trotter put their heads together to speculate about what Big Ma meant by “tired,” and if she would go through with the wedding vows. Mrs. said she had the right to change her mind. Although each thought there was a chance that she might not go through with it, both sisters said, “Hush,” and went on speculating.
I’d made a gallon
of iced tea earlier and brought out four full glasses. Two for the Trotter sisters and one for Mrs. Everyone else could get their own. I took the fourth glass down the hall and knocked before pushing open the cracked door to Big Ma’s room. She sat by the nightstand, her hat still on her head, its feather drooping, and her black Bible in her lap. A single sheet of paper lay facedown on the Bible. Big Ma caressed the paper along its center crease like it was a living thing that needed caressing. Her eyes were lost in the nothingness of the wallpaper lilies.
My first guess was that Miss Trotter and Ma Charles were right about Big Ma. She was having second thoughts about marrying Mr. Lucas. I spoke softly so as not to startle her. “Big Ma, do you want me to put that away? It looks important.” I pointed to the paper.
Her hand brushed across it. “I almost forgot it,” she said, as if she was talking to air. “I almost forgot it. Then I remembered, you have to bring the death . . . bring the . . .”
By its coloring and its less than sharp crease, I knew it was something Big Ma had been keeping for years. Something she had gotten into the habit of rubbing, like she was doing now.
It wasn’t the courthouse papers from her trip into town with Mr. Lucas. It was my grandfather’s death certificate.
She looked up as if she was seeing me for the first time. “Just let me sit for a minute, Delphine.”
I placed the coaster with the glass of iced tea on the nightstand. She didn’t look like she would move, so I removed the long, dull-ended pin from her hat and lifted the sea-green hat from her hair, her own hair, and returned her Sunday hat to its eight-sided box. I unbuckled her shoes, pulled off each one, and rubbed the swelling in both feet. Then I left her alone.
A week later, Pastor Curtis came to the house with an even bigger Bible than Big Ma’s black Bible and married our grandmother to her next-door neighbor in the living room. Pa and Uncle Darnell insisted on standing on both sides of Big Ma to walk her up to Mr. Lucas and the pastor while she fussed about being escorted like a common criminal. Instead of pronouncing all of Big Ma’s names, the pastor presented them as “Mr. and Mrs. Elijah Lucas.” Ma Charles raised her tambourine as high as she could and gave it a good shake. Vonetta and Fern threw purple maypop petals and blew dandelions as they hobbled down the aisle. Since Vonetta hobbled, Fern also hobbled. Miss Trotter scolded them for using “good medicinals” to throw at the rug. Big Ma told Vonetta and Fern to clean up every last bit of field weed and seed before they went to bed. Mrs. behaved herself, although I caught her shaking her head woefully when the pastor called Big Ma Mrs. Elijah Lucas and not Ophelia Lucas.
In spite of Big Ma’s fussing, I knew my grandmother was happy, but no one grinned wider than Mr. Lucas. Like Ma Charles said, “He waited longer than Jacob waited for Rachel.”
Miss Trotter said, “I call that waiting, sister. I surely do.”
Southern Good-bye
Ma Charles and Miss Trotter were full of “what-to-dos” for Mrs. and the baby. Mrs. started looking for Pa to save her from their home remedies.
“Are you sure you can’t stay another couple of days?” JimmyTrotter asked. “Butter’s about to drop her calf any day now. Could even be tonight.”
“Sorry, son,” my father said. “They won’t hold my job forever.”
JimmyTrotter said to me, “Wish you could be here with me when I pull out this calf. I got a good feeling.”
“I’m a Brooklyn girl,” I told my cousin. “I don’t go around pulling out calves, JT.”
He threw one arm around my neck, dragged me near, and pressed his knuckle into my forehead.
Fern stopped dead in her tracks. “What do you mean, pull out a calf?”
“How do you think that calf is going to get out of her?” Vonetta said. Although her “heinie” still hurt when she walked, Vonetta was coming back to her old self, and we were treating her like her old self. Not entirely, but close enough.
“All right, young lady.” Mrs. wagged her finger at Vonetta. I was tired of scolding my sister and was glad Mrs. stepped in. “Honey,” Mrs. said to Pa. “All this talk about pulling out baby cows is making me dizzy. Let’s get in the car and on the road.”
When Fern was out of earshot I asked my cousin, “What about Sophie?”
“We’ll try her out one more time. Get her with a calf. See how it goes.” He shrugged but there was nothing hopeful in his voice.
I took JimmyTrotter aside and said, “Fern is right. Maybe you milking her isn’t enough. Maybe she needs her calf to get her milk and then she’ll give more. Have you thought of that?”
He slugged me. Light. “Get in the car, Brooklyn.”
“I’m getting, JT. I’m getting. Just think about it,” I said, although I wasn’t yet finished with my hugs.
He gave me another noogie sandwich, to let me know that he could, and somewhere in that we hugged a real hug.
Between Mr. and Mrs. Lucas, the Trotter sisters, cousin JT, and Uncle D, we must have made at least three rounds of hugs, “Yawl be careful,” and “See you real soon,” with the Lord’s blessing added for good measure. Mrs. called it the “Southern good-bye” because it went on and on and on and there was nothing like it in New York. “People just aren’t that way,” she said.
Uncle Darnell and Pa shook hands, and Uncle D gave Mrs. a hug, and then he hugged each one of us. During my last round of hugs with my uncle, he patted his pockets and said, “Delphine. Almost forgot.” He held out a folded paper napkin. “From Sis.” He saved his favorite, Net-Net, for last and whispered something in her ear. She whispered back.
“All right, drive safely, family.” And then he was in the truck he shared with Mr. Lucas, his stepfather, and off to work.
And finally we did the last part of the Southern good-bye. We were all in the car and Mr. Lucas called out, “Drive careful.”
Big Ma said, “Don’t make a fuss over everything. Every good-bye isn’t gone.”
Butter mooed something awful and everyone laughed.
“Well, you better get gone,” Ma Charles told us. “The cow said it all.”
“If you call that gone,” Miss Trotter said.
Fern mooed and Vonetta said, “Cut it out.”
Then Caleb got in on the good-byes and sang his dog song. We heard him singing when we could no longer see the house. And all I could think was how strange it would be to leave all of this. Cows, chickens, the creek. All of it. And yet part of me was ready to go home.
Vonetta lifted her cast to point to the napkin in my hand. “What is it?” Vonetta asked.
“Yeah, what?”
I unfolded it and let it fall in my lap. “A letter. From Cecile.”
“Where’s mine?” Vonetta asked. “I’m the one who was nearly killed.”
I’d be hearing that for a long time. “I’ll share it,” I said, even though I didn’t want to. I wanted to take my letter to a secret place and enjoy my mother’s words, even if she’d written You’re hardheaded, Delphine, like I knew she could. No matter what Cecile wrote, no matter how short or how mean, I planned to read it alone, over and over, to try to learn who my mother was.
I cleared my throat in dramatic Vonetta fashion, hoping to get a smile out of her. Then I read.
Dear Delphine,
A woman who kicks up dust to make her path can walk through a storm. If her child can walk through a storm then she can. She can walk through the violent wind with peace inside her. She does not walk for herself. She is not there for herself. She is not there for her anger. She is not there for her own pain. She is there for her child. She can withstand it all. Even if she leaves without the child in her arms, she carries the child with her. All of her children. With her. In her. The storm cannot take her peace away. A storm cannot take the child away.
Your Mother.
Cecile
P.S. Things do fall apart.
P.P.S. But you’re strong enough to walk through the storm.
P.P.P.S. (if there is such a thing): Walk on, daughter. Walk on.
“You see!” Vonetta cried. “Her poem is about me.”
Mrs. made a “hmp” sound. And I thought it was funny that she sounded like Big Ma.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mrs. said to Pa. “When we get home, you’re going to trade in this tin can on wheels for a brand-new car. That’s the end of this Wildcat.”
“Oh, is that so?” Papa said.
“You think I’m joking. I want this old car gone.”
Whatever Mrs. was mad about she took out on Pa’s faithful old girl, the Buick Wildcat. Although Pa’s voice teased, I knew Mrs. meant what she said.
Keeps on Ticking
I believe Mrs. truly hurt the Wildcat’s feelings. Once Pa parked the car on Herkimer Street, he couldn’t get the car to growl, let alone purr. She sat there, dusty from nine hundred miles of driving, and refused to move another inch.
We were so used to her growling and rumbling, announcing our father’s comings and goings. I couldn’t remember not having her. We had been warmed and comforted by the rumbling of the Wildcat as we drove off to wherever Pa was taking us. We made up car-riding games for extra-long trips. We’d sung along with any group or singer who joined us through speakers as the bass boomed low and the treble pined high. We had some good times in the Wildcat. It was hard to see her go.
Pa was determined to save his precious car. His old girl. It didn’t matter how many hours he spent with the hood up and his hands scarred up and blackened with oil. The Wildcat refused to turn over.
Vonetta, Fern, and I sat on the stoop and watched the tow truck come and take Papa’s Wildcat away.
“At least we made it back to Brooklyn,” I said.
Vonetta nodded. “She could have conked out on the road in the middle of the night.”
“And we’d have to hitchhike all the way home.”
For a second, I thought Vonetta would burst out into a chorus of “Hitch Hike,” and we’d be her Marvin Gaye backup singers doing the “Hitch Hike” dance. But since Vonetta didn’t sing a note or make a move, I let it go.
Gone Crazy in Alabama Page 18
