Pieces of Why

by K L Going

  “We should find Ms. Marion,” I muttered.

  We walked slower this time, neither of us saying a word. The barbecue grills were heating up, sending waves of stomach-rumbling smoke in our direction. Old Mr. Hill was stirring a big pot of jambalaya, and the Neighborhood Association was making po’ boys. I’d hardly eaten breakfast or lunch, so my stomach was clamoring, but I couldn’t imagine eating anything now. Keisha followed my gaze, wistfully.

  “Better wait until after we sing,” she said.

  I barely nodded.

  We reached the end of the courtyard, where the instruments were set up for the performers. There would be a steady rotation of music all night long. African drummers, a rock band, the Old Guy’s quartet . . . but we were singing first.

  “You’ll set the tone,” Ms. Marion told us every year.

  As soon as we reached her, I could tell she was upset. She was pinching the bridge of her nose again.

  “Girls. Good. You’re here.” Her words were short and snappy.

  Some of the other choir members were milling around, and Keisha waved at Khalil, wiggling her fingers down low, near her hip, like it was a secret just between the two of them. I scanned the crowd for Kenny, but there was no sign of him.

  I told myself that was no big deal, but I couldn’t help wishing he might appear at my side and take my hand again. I wondered what it would feel like if Kenny never came back to choir. Would his mother pull him out because of the shooting? How could I miss someone I’d hardly talked to before?

  “Is it nearly time?” I asked Ms. Marion. I didn’t have a watch, and I was hoping it was still early, since only about half the choir had shown up.

  “It’s six fifteen,” Ms. Marion said as her whole body drooped onto a metal folding chair. “How am I s’posed to keep this up?” she asked, shaking her head. “I imagine you children leading by example, making beautiful music together, but how can I keep this going when the devil steals half my choir? Half.”

  For a moment I thought Ms. Marion might cry, and that thought scared me deep in my bones. If Ms. Marion cried, I knew it would be a flood of tears, like after Hurricane Katrina, when my whole neighborhood had been forced to evacuate. I was too young to remember, but you could still see the water marks on some of the buildings.

  Ms. Marion stood up.

  “Well,” she said, “I guess God never said He was going to make things easy, now did He? But we’re going to do what we always do, which is to band together and sing our hearts out. Can you do that for me, Tia?”

  I nodded. More than anything, I wanted to make things better for Ms. Marion.

  “Choir! Assemble!” Ms. Marion called, holding up her arms. Her voice boomed into the evening air, and one by one, kids emerged. I stepped onto the lowest riser and started a weak hum to warm up my vocal cords.

  Mary-Kate brushed past me. “I can’t believe you showed up,” she hissed, tossing her long brown curls over her shoulder. “That’s nervy. Considering.”

  She stepped away before I had a chance to respond, taking her place on the top riser, and I could feel her eyes burning into me. I wondered how she’d found out. Had her mother told her last night, the way Ms. Evette had told Keisha? Or had she known all along? Was that the real reason she’d always hated me?

  My knees were weak. Straight ahead of me, Ms. Marion was addressing the crowd, talking about loss and what it means to be a community.

  “When bad things happen,” she said, “we must pull together and focus on the goodness all around us, like these beautiful children who will bless us tonight with the power of their music.”

  The audience clapped, but I felt the how-could-she-show-up underneath their applause.

  “And now,” Ms. Marion said, “the Rainbow Choir will perform in honor of the child that was taken too soon from this world. Our first selection, ‘I Know,’ features our lead soloist, the talented Tia Rose Frank.” She turned and motioned for me to step forward.

  Everyone waited, but I couldn’t move. In the evening sunlight, I could see all the eyes staring at me, and I imagined each person wishing I hadn’t come, wondering what right I, of all people, had to sing in honor of a murdered baby.

  “Tia,” Ms. Marion said, her brows crinkling. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  The audience shuffled nervously, and I saw people whispering to one another. A man scowled and then spat on the ground, and several teenagers laughed. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweating, and the silence stretched on, taut as a rubber band about to snap.

  But no matter how hard I tried to move, I remained frozen in place.

  Finally, I shook my head.

  That’s when I heard a voice above me. “I can sing the lead, Ms. Marion.” It was Mary-Kate. I glanced up at her fake angelic smile and knew she was stealing my part.

  But I didn’t care.

  She could have all of my beautiful colored scarves. I didn’t deserve them.

  Ms. Marion looked at me, concerned, but finally she gestured for Mary-Kate to move down front.

  “Ms. Mary-Kate Torelo,” Ms. Marion said to the crowd, sweeping her hand in a dramatic arc. The band started up, and when Mary-Kate began to sing, I tasted the salty tears sneaking past my lips.

  Without any warning, I was four years old again, visiting my father in prison, strung tight with fear and grief. I remembered his unruly hair, so like mine, his high forehead, hollow cheeks, and dark stubble. Tattoos peeked out from the collar of his orange jumpsuit, and his upper lip rose into a sneer when he saw that Ma had brought me.

  “Don’t be bringing her here.”

  I’d hid behind Ma, but he’d glared straight at me.

  “Look kid,” he’d said, “it ain’t your fault you’ve got a trucker for a dad. Last thing you need is to go through this crap.” He’d gestured around the big room where all the inmates were visiting their families, but I’d known he meant the other part—the scary part where we’d had to get searched by a security guard and go through two sets of doors that locked with a loud clang behind us.

  Ma had covered my ears when my father said he was a trucker, but I’d still heard her growl, “You’re an ungrateful fool, Lyle Frank.”

  I’d been so busy wondering why my father had claimed to be a truck driver when he’d never worked a steady job in his life that I hadn’t said anything, and by the time Ma’s hands had fallen off my ears, they were deep in a full-on fight. Years later I’d realized my dad hadn’t said trucker after all. He’d said a real bad word instead, and I’d wanted to ask Ma why he’d said that, but if I even mentioned someone with the same first name as my dad, Ma would be in bed with a migraine for days.

  Now the whole memory came back and all I could do was take deep, rhythmic breaths while Mary-Kate Torelo belted out the lead.

  When she was done, everyone clapped and whistled, and Mary-Kate bowed. Ms. Marion cued our next song, and the choir began to sway, but I’d had enough. I slipped off the risers and into the crowd, walking straight back to the far corner.

  I wanted to be alone—possibly forever—but a little while later, I felt a hand on my arm. “You feeling okay?” Dwayne asked.

  I nodded as if my insides weren’t churning up.

  “Just got nervous,” I mumbled as the choir sang in the background. “Stage fright.”

  Dwayne raised one eyebrow. “You got stage fright?”

  I nodded again, and Dwayne folded his arms across his chest, frowning like he was thinking real hard. “You know what I like about you, Tia?” he asked at last.

  I shook my head, chewing on my bottom lip.

  “I like that you’re a terrible liar. You know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because,” he said, “it means you’re good at heart.”

  Dwayne reached out one large, strong hand and despite all the darkness inside of me, I took hold.
It was as if there was a war going on, and his little bit of good had swooped in at the last minute to save the day.

  That made me think about my father. Would any part of him care that I loved Dwayne more than him? Would he be happy that I’d remembered him tonight, or sad that I’d forgotten him in the first place? Did he remember me?

  “C’mon,” Dwayne said once the choir had finished. “Looks like my princess has found herself a prince.” He nodded toward Keisha and Khalil coming off the risers, holding hands as they slipped into the crowd. “So I guess we minions might as well go find the queen.”

  He meant Ms. Evette, and he was trying to make me laugh, but I couldn’t do it. Not tonight. Dusk was creeping in, the fireflies were coming out, and the sky was streaked with the remnants of a New Orleans sunset, but all I could think about was my father’s face as he’d watched me and Ma walk out of the visiting room that last time.

  He’d looked like the Raven woman. As if he’d lost something he could never get back, and part of him had died too.

  That thought made me shiver.

  Was that what it felt like to live behind bars, knowing you’d never again feel a cool breeze at night or watch fireflies light up the darkness? Knowing that your child would grow up without you, reaching out for a father’s hand that could never be yours?

  CHAPTER 11

  WHEN I GOT home, the house was dark, and I knew Ma was already in bed. Ms. Evette, Dwayne, Jerome, and Keisha saw me to my door, and Keisha hugged me before she left. She’d talked about Khalil the whole way home—how gorgeous and smart and talented he is—but now she frowned.

  “Sorry about tonight,” she said. “Guess I was wrong about no one else knowing about your dad. Are you mad I didn’t hang out with you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m just glad you and Khalil had a good time.”

  She grinned like a lit sparkler. “We did. He’s so amazing.”

  “Tell me more about it tomorrow?”

  Keisha nodded, and I was relieved to slip away. When I stepped inside, I triple-locked the door, checking the chain twice before I shut off the outside lights. Ma had left a plate of food with a note in the kitchen, but I still couldn’t eat, so I stuck it in the refrigerator. Then I went into my bedroom and put on my softest pajamas: the ones with the yellow stars that I’d mostly outgrown.

  It was strange the way my body was growing, but I still felt the same. Sometimes I wanted to stay me forever, never wanted to outgrow my old star pajamas, but other times I was so scared of getting left behind. Keisha had already started her period, but I hadn’t. What if mine never came?

  I wondered if Danielle had ever gotten her period, but it felt wrong to wonder about such a personal thing. Still . . . did she ever have a boyfriend? A best friend? What had she wanted to be when she grew up?

  Made me feel lonely, so I went into Ma’s room and climbed into bed with her, squeezing next to her thin frame. Hours later, I finally fell asleep listening to the sound of her breathing, real steady, like a metronome keeping the beat.

  When I woke, Ma was already up and the mattress felt too big. I rolled around for a few minutes, then got up, and went into the kitchen. Ma was in her bathrobe standing at the sink doing dishes, but when I came out she stopped, walked over, and kissed me on the forehead.

  “How did it go last night?”

  Horrible. The worst night ever.

  “Tia? I asked you a question.”

  “What?” I glanced up. “Good.”

  Ma nodded, as if good were enough information. “Now, what do you want for our feast?”

  Saturday morning feasts were our tradition. Ma went to work at the grocery store later on Saturdays, so we cooked a huge breakfast and stayed in our pajamas for as long as possible.

  “Waffles?” she prompted. “And maybe some orange slices and sausages?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn’t feel like having a feast today, but Ma was already getting her old CD player down from the top of the refrigerator. No one else I knew listened to CDs, but Ma still used the same player she’d had since I was a baby. She put on Nanci Griffith, her favorite bluegrass singer. Usually I sang along and Ma would listen and smile. Sometimes she hummed and every now and then she’d break into a line of song, as if she didn’t realize what she was doing. But now we were quiet as she cracked the eggs into the flour and sugar. She always took the time to make the waffles from scratch.

  What would she say when I told her that I knew what my father had done? I wanted to scream at her for not telling me everything, but how could I yell at someone who worked every spare minute to keep us from falling apart?

  Ma stopped and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She looked exhausted. Other people had hobbies, or at least they watched TV shows—something—but Ma had nothing except two jobs and Saturday mornings.

  Finally, I couldn’t stand it.

  “Sit down, Ma,” I said. “Let me finish up.”

  Ma paused, looking between me and the waffle maker, but she didn’t argue. “Be sure to spray it extra good,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table and propping her slippered feet onto a chair. I nodded and took two plates out of the cupboard. I peeled an orange and pulled apart the segments, their fragrance squirting into the air in a light orange mist. I chewed my bottom lip, wondering what I should say.

  “Ma,” I said at last.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think we could talk about . . . the past? I mean . . . about—”

  All the color drained from Ma’s face. Her feet slid off the chair and she looked like she might be sick. I could see the pinch around her eyes that happened right before a migraine hit.

  “I meant, could we look at your old pictures?”

  Ma’s breath released in a whoosh of relief. “Again?” she said, cracking a thin smile.

  “It’s been a long time,” I argued, forcing the words out even as my heart broke. “And I want to see the ones of Grammy and Grandpa.”

  Ma stood up. “You gotta use more spray than that,” she said, watching over my shoulder. “Sure. I’ll go get the box.”

  Ma kept all her photos in a shoebox under her bed. They were worn and bent in places from us looking at them so often. She disappeared for a second, then came back and set the box onto the table while I finished up the waffles.

  I really did like looking at the pictures, so before I knew it, I was as caught up as Ma. We riffled through the box while we ate, taking our time examining each photo between syrupy bites, wiping our fingertips on washcloths, and being extra careful not to let the syrup drip.

  I loved the pictures of Ma as a teenager. She was usually posing with her hip jutted to one side or her mouth in a pout. Her hair was teased high on her head, and Ma laughed about how much hairspray she’d used to make it stay up. She looked so beautiful in those pictures—light and free, like all she did was laugh.

  Hard to imagine.

  I wondered if there was a picture of my father in that box, but I’d never dared to ask. Ma rooted around until she found a photo of her parents. They stood in front of their house on Felicity Street, Grandpa with a big, round belly and Grammy with a stick-thin frame. Grandpa smiled like someone had just told a joke, and Grammy’s eyes sparkled.

  I wished I had known them. Grandpa died not long after Ma graduated from high school, so I’d never met him, and Grammy passed away when I was small.

  “They were so kind,” Ma said. “Your grandmother sang like an angel. You sound just like her. Sometimes when I close my eyes . . .” Ma breathed in deep. “I love it when you sing,” she said, “even if I don’t always make it to your concerts. You know that, right? I bet you were spectacular last night.”

  I tightened my hands into fists and felt my heart racing, too fast and too hard. Ma didn’t even know I hadn’t sung.

  “Ma,” I blurted, “tell
me about my father.”

  Ma had been sipping orange juice, but now she choked on it. She coughed the way people do when something has gone down the wrong pipe, hacking so hard I thought she might throw up.

  “No,” Ma said between coughs.

  She stood up and took her plate to the sink. She was still for a long time, leaning against the counter, and then she closed her eyes. “This isn’t a good time. I have to get dressed for my shift.” She was angry. “You could have given me some warning.”

  “Please.” How could Ma and I share the same secret without ever talking about it?

  “No,” Ma said again. “I’ve told you before, there’s no point in bringing up the past. You know all there is to know.”

  Another lie.

  I watched Ma disappear into her room to put her uniform on, knowing that when she came out, her shoulders would be slumped and her eyes would be flat. She emerged a while later, set for work. For a few minutes she bustled around the kitchen without saying anything, and then she stepped up to the front door. “I’m pulling a double tonight,” she said, one hand on the doorknob, “so don’t wait up.”

  Guilt made my stomach churn.

  I’d spoiled the only time all week when she was happy.

  CHAPTER 12

  ONCE MA was gone, the house was quiet.

  I tossed my dishes into the sink with a loud clatter, not sure who I was more frustrated with: me or Ma. Why wouldn’t she tell me the truth? And why couldn’t I make her?

  I kicked at a bag of foam peanuts, spilling some onto the floor, then picked up the shoebox and turned it upside down. Pictures flew everywhere, fluttering across the linoleum. I watched them fall, wanting to stomp on them, but instead I knelt and picked them up one by one, placing them back in the box.

  There had to be a picture of my father in there. Just one.

  I’d seen most of the photos a hundred times, but a few were unfamiliar—the ones Ma kept stashed at the bottom. But none of them were of him.

  Where was he?

  Ma had married him, they’d had me, we’d been a family, lived together in this very house. Was it possible that a person could be absent from an entire lifetime of photographs? I grabbed the box and hurled it across the kitchen.