Tar Baby

by Toni Morrison

  In wanting to live near him she was not behaving like a brood hen. Quite the contrary. She had cut the cord decisively and was enjoying her son as an individual. He was simply better society than her women friends. Younger, freer, more fun. And he was better company than the men of her acquaintance who either wanted to seduce, lecture or bore her to death. She felt natural, easy, unafraid with Michael. There was no competition with him, no winning, no preening, no need to be anybody but who she was, and in his presence she did not forget the names and uses of things. It wasn’t always that way. When he was an infant he seemed to want everything of her, and she didn’t know what to give. She loved him even then. But no one would believe it. They would think she was one of those mothers in the National Enquirer. And since she was not anything like them, she fell asleep finally, but did not have the dream she ought to.

  DOWN BELOW, where the moon couldn’t get to, in the servants’ quarters, Sydney and Ondine made alternate trips to the bathroom and went quickly back to sleep. Ondine dreaming of sliding into water, frightened that her heavy legs and swollen ankles will sink her. But still asleep she turns over and touches her husband’s back—the dream dissolves and with it the anxiety. He is in Baltimore now as usual and because it was always a red city in his mind—red brick, red sun, red necks and cardinals—his dream of it now was rust-colored. Wagons, fruit stands, all rust-colored. He had left that city to go to Philadelphia and there he became one of those industrious Philadelphia Negroes—the proudest people in the race. That was over fifty years ago, and still his most vivid dreams were the red rusty Baltimore of 1921. The fish, the trees, the music, the horses’ harnesses. It was a tiny dream he had each night that he would never recollect from morning to morning. So he never knew what it was exactly that refreshed him.

  They were all asleep now. Nothing disturbed them. Not the moon certainly and certainly no footsteps in the dark.

  3

  FOG CAME to that place in wisps sometimes, like the hair of maiden aunts. Hair so thin and pale it went unnoticed until masses of it gathered around the house and threw back one’s own reflection from the windows. The sixty-four bulbs in the dining room chandelier were no more than a rhinestone clip in the hair of the maiden aunts. The gray of it, the soil and swirl of it, was right in the room, moistening the table linen and clouding the wine. Salt crystals clung to each other. Oysters uncurled their fringes and sank to the bottom of the tureen. Patience was difficult to come by in that fuzzy caul and breathing harder still. It was then that the word “island” had meaning.

  Jadine and Margaret touched their cheeks and temples to dry the places the maiden aunts were kissing. Sydney (unbidden but right on time) circled the table with steps as felt as blackboard erasers. He kept his eyes on the platter, or the table setting, or his feet, or the hands of those he was serving, and never made eye contact with any of them, including his niece. With a practiced sidelong glance he caught Valerian pressing his thumb to the edge of the soup plate, pushing it an inch or so away. Instantly Sydney retraced his felt steps to clear the plates for the next course. Just before he reached Margaret, who had not yet touched anything, she dipped her spoon into the bisque and began to eat. Sydney hesitated and then stepped back.

  “You’re dawdling, Margaret,” said Valerian.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. The maiden aunts stroked her cheek and she wiped away the dampness their fingers left.

  “There is a rhythm to a meal. I’ve always told you that.”

  “I said sorry. I’m not a fast eater.”

  “Speed has nothing to do with it. Pace does,” Valerian answered.

  “So my pace is different from yours.”

  “It’s the soufflé, Margaret,” Jadine interrupted. “Valerian knows there’s a soufflé tonight.”

  Margaret put her spoon down. It clicked against the china. Sydney floated to her elbow.

  She was usually safe with soup, anything soft or liquid that required a spoon, but she was never sure when the confusion would return: when she would scrape her fork tines along the china trying to pick up the painted blossoms at its center, or forget to unwrap the Amaretti cookie at the side of her plate and pop the whole thing into her mouth. Valerian would squint at her, but say nothing, convinced that she was stewed. Lobster, corn on the cob—all problematic. It came. It went. And when it left sometimes for a year, she couldn’t believe how stupid it was. Still she was careful at table, watching other people handle their food—just to make sure that never again would she pick up the knife instead of the celery stalk or pour water from her glass over the prime ribs instead of the meat’s own juices. Now it was coming back. Right after she managed to eat the correct part of the mango, in spite of the fact that Ondine tried to trick her by leaving the skin on and propping it up in ice, she had dug in her fork recklessly, and a slice came away. Right after that Sydney presented her with a plate of something shaped like a cardboard box. Now she had hesitated to see if the little white pebbles floating in her bowl were to be eaten or not. It came to her in a flash—oysterettes!—and she had dipped her spoon happily into the soup but had hardly begun when Valerian complained. Now Jade was announcing a new obstacle: soufflé. Margaret prayed she would recognize it.

  “Mushroom?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Jadine. “I think so.”

  “I hate mushrooms.”

  “I’m not sure; maybe it’s plain.”

  “I like it when it’s hot, plain and fluffy,” said Margaret.

  “Well, let’s hope that’s what we get. Omelet’s more likely in this weather.” Valerian was fidgety and signaled for more wine. “The only thing I dislike about this island is the fog.”

  “It may not be good for eggs, but it’s doing a good job of souffléing my hair,” said Jadine. “I should have had it cut like yours, Margaret.” She pressed her hair down with both palms, but as soon as she removed them her hair sprang back into a rain cloud.

  “Oh, no. Mine’s so stringy now,” said Margaret.

  “But it still looks okay. That’s why that haircut’s so popular, you know? Uncombed, even wet, it’s got a shape that suits the face. This shaggy-dog style I wear has to be worked on, and I mean worked on.”

  Margaret laughed. “It’s very becoming, Jade. It makes you look like what was her name in Black Orpheus? Eurydice.”

  “Chee, Margaret, chee,” said Valerian. “Eurydi-chee.”

  “Remember her hair when she was hanging from the wires in that streetcar garage?” Margaret continued to address Jadine.

  “You mean the hair in her armpits?” Jadine asked. She was uncomfortable with the way Margaret stirred her into blackening up or universaling out, always alluding to or ferreting out what she believed were racial characteristics. She ended by resisting both, but it kept her alert about things she did not wish to be alert about.

  Margaret’s blue-if-it’s-a-boy blue eyes crinkled with laughter. “No, I mean the hair on her head. It was lovely. Who noticed her armpits?”

  “I would like to stay well through dessert, ladies, if you please. Could we find another topic?”

  “Valerian, could you for once, just once—”

  “Say,” Jadine broke in. “What about Christmas? That’s a topic we need to talk about. We haven’t even begun to plan. Any guests?” She picked up the salad utensils from the bowl of many-colored greens Sydney held near her. “Oh, I meant to tell you, the von Brandts sent a note…”

  “Brandt, Jade. Just plain Brandt. The ‘von’ is imaginary,” Valerian said.

  Margaret took hold of the long wooden handles poking out of the salad bowl that Sydney held toward her. Carefully she transferred the greens to her plate. Nothing spilled. She took another helping and it arrived safely also. She sighed and was about to tell Jade to decline the Brandts’ invitation when Valerian shouted, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Startled, Margaret looked around. He was glaring at her. Jade was looking at her plate while Sydney leaned near her w
rist. “What?” she said. “What?”—looking down at her plate. It was all right, nothing spilled, nothing broken: lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber all there. Then Sydney set the bowl on the table and picked up the salad spoon and fork. She had left them on the table.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she whispered, but she was angry. What was so awful about that? They had looked at her as though she’d wet her pants. Then quickly they pretended it had not happened; Jadine was chirping again.

  “Well anyway, they want you both for dinner. Small, she says. But the Hatchers are having a big weekend thing. And they want—” She paused for half a heartbeat. Their faces were closed, snapped shut like the lids of jewelry boxes. “They thought you’d like to come for the entire weekend. Christmas Eve, a dinner party; then breakfast, then some boating in the afternoon, then, then a cocktail party with dancing. The Journeymen from Queen of France are playing. Well, they’re not really from there. New Jersey, I think, but they’ve been playing at Chez Marin—” She couldn’t go on in that silence. “What’s the matter, Margaret?”

  “Let’s go back to armpits,” Margaret said.

  The maiden aunts smiled and tossed their maiden aunt hair.

  “We’ll do nothing of the sort. You were saying, Jade?” Valerian drained his wineglass.

  Jadine shrugged. “Are you planning Christmas here—or where?”

  “Here. Quietly. Although we may have a guest or two.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Tell her, Margaret.”

  “Michael is coming. For Christmas.” Margaret’s smile was shy.

  “But that’s wonderful,” said Jadine.

  “Valerian thinks he won’t. He will though, because I promised him this really terrific present.”

  “What? Can you tell me?”

  “A poet,” said Valerian. “She’s giving him his favorite poet for Christmas. Isn’t that so, love?”

  “You make everything I do sound stupid.”

  “I thought I described it fairly.”

  “It’s not the words; it’s the tone.” Margaret turned her head to Jadine. “I’ve invited B. J. Bridges for the holidays and he said he’d come. He used to be Michael’s teacher.”

  “And Michael doesn’t know?”

  “Not exactly. But he’ll guess. I gave him a hint—a big one—so he could. I used a line from one of Bridges’s poems in my letter. ‘And he glittered when he walked.’”

  “Then you may as well have your nervous breakdown right now,” said Valerian. “He won’t come. You’ve misled him entirely.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s on his way. His trunk’s already been shipped.”

  “That is not a line from anything Bridges ever wrote. Michael will think you’re dotty.”

  “It is. I have the poem right upstairs. I underlined it myself. It was the one Michael used to recite.”

  “Then Bridges is not only a mediocrity, he’s a thief.”

  “Perhaps he was using it as a quotation, or an allusion—” Jadine fiddled with her hair.

  “He’ll think you’re batty and…”

  “Valerian, please.”

  “…and go snake dancing.”

  “Then I’ll go with him.”

  “We’ve been all through this, Margaret.”

  “When will you know for sure?” Jadine’s voice affected lightness.

  “She already knows for sure. The rest is hope and a determination to irritate me.”

  “Irritating you doesn’t have to be determined. All anybody has to do is breathe a slice of your air—”

  “Must you always speak in food measurements? The depression is over. You are free to leave something on your plate. There’s more. There really is more.”

  “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this. You’re trying to ruin it for me, but you’re not going to. I tear my life apart and come down here for the winter and all I ask in return is a normal Christmas that includes my son. You won’t come to us—we have to come to you and it’s not fair. You know it’s not. This whole thing is getting to be too much!”

  “Is that a problem for you? Having too much?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, but is it a problem for you? Because if it is I can arrange for less. I could certainly do with less myself. Less hysteria, less shouting, less drama…”

  Jadine, unable to think of anything to do or say, watched tomato seeds slide into the salad dressing, and set about applying the principles of a survey course in psychology. During the two months she’d been there, Valerian and Margaret frequently baited one another and each had a dictionary of complaints against the other, entries in which, from time to time, they showed her. Just a May and December marriage, she thought, at its crucial stage. He’s seventy; she’s knocking fifty. He is waning, shutting up, closing in. She’s blazing with the fire of a soon to be setting sun. Naturally they bickered and taunted one another. Naturally. Normally, even. For they were decent people. Over and above their personal generosity to her and their solicitude for her uncle and aunt, they seemed decent. Decent like Sydney and Nanadine were decent, and this house full of decent folk situated in the pure sea air was exactly where she wanted to be right now. This vacation with light but salaried work was what she needed to pull herself together. Listening to Margaret and Valerian fight was a welcome distraction, just as playing daughter to Sydney and Nanadine was.

  But recently (a few days ago, last night, and again tonight) flecks of menace lay in these quarrels. They no longer seemed merely the tiffs of long-married people who alone knew the physics of their relationship. Who like two old cats clawed each other, used each other to display a quarrelsomeness neither took seriously, quarreling because they thought it was expected of them, quarreling simply to exchange roles now and then for their own private amusement: the heavy would appear abused in public, the aggressive and selfish one would appear the eye and heart of restraint before an audience. And most of the time, like now, the plain of their battle was a child, and the weapons public identification of human frailty. Still, this was a little darker than what she had come to expect from them. Bits of blood, tufts of hair seemed to stick on those worn claws. Maybe she had misread their rules. Or maybe (most likely) she wasn’t an audience anymore. Maybe she was family now—or nobody. No, she thought, it must be this place. The island exaggerated everything. Too much light. Too much shadow. Too much rain. Too much foliage and much too much sleep. She’d never slept so deeply in her life. Such tranquillity in sleep made for wildness during the waking hours. That’s what it was: the wilderness creeping into Valerian and Margaret’s seasoned and regulated arguments, subverting the rules so that they looked at each other under the tender light of a seventy-year-old chandelier, bought by Valerian’s father in celebration of his wife’s first pregnancy, lifted their lips and bared their teeth.

  “…she never liked me,” Margaret was saying. “From the very beginning she hated me.”

  “How could she hate you from the beginning? She didn’t even know you.” Valerian lowered his voice in an effort to calm her.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “She was perfectly polite and gracious to you in the beginning.”

  “She was awful to me, Valerian. Awful!”

  “That was later when you wouldn’t let Michael visit her.”

  “Wouldn’t let? I couldn’t make him go. He hated her; he’d shrink at the very—”

  “Margaret, stick to the facts, Michael was two or three. He couldn’t have hated anybody, let alone his aunt.”

  “He did, and if you had any feelings you would have hated her too.”

  “My own sister?”

  “Or at least told her off.”

  “For what, for God’s sake. For having a private wedding instead of a circus? You never invite them down here and she’s probably upset about it, that’s all. And this is her way of—”

  “Dear God. You have screamed at me for years for having too many pe
ople. Now you want me to invite Cissy and Frank. I don’t believe—”

  “I didn’t say that. I don’t want her here any more than you do. I am only trying to explain why they didn’t let us know about the wedding. From what I gather—”

  “What do you mean us? She invited Michael! But not me!”

  “Stacey’s idea.”

  “Do you think if Michael got married I would invite Stacey and not her parents?”

  “Margaret, I don’t give one goddamn—”

  “She’s always treated me that way. You know what she did to me the first day I met her.”