Pieces of Why

by K L Going

  “I’ve missed your singing,” she said. “You’ve been some quiet these past few days.”

  “I have?” I said, as if I hadn’t felt the loss like a punch to the gut. Singing was my favorite thing in the world, so why didn’t I want to do it anymore?

  Ms. Evette laughed. “Okay,” she said. “You be that way if you must, but just remember that I’m not so senile yet that I don’t remember what it was like to be your age. Lots of changes going on.”

  I blushed, knowing she meant stuff like having crushes on boys and wearing a bra.

  “I know,” I said, trying not to stare at the spot where the car had been.

  “Good,” said Ms. Evette, stopping in front of the New Heaven Baptist Church. “Now you open up and sing in there, you hear? And be careful walking home.”

  I pushed a dried palm frond on the sidewalk with the toe of my sneaker.

  “I will,” I mumbled, and then I reached up and put my fingertip on Jerome’s because he was pointing at me as if he wanted to tell me something. “Bye-bye,” I told him, before ducking into the church building.

  The inside of the New Heaven Baptist Church was musty and dark. The stained-glass windows didn’t let in any real light, so whenever I stepped inside, it felt like another world. I was glad Ms. Marion lived too far away to do lessons in her home like other teachers. Even after everything that had happened, I still loved the dark wood pews and red velvet seat cushions. I loved the smallness of the sanctuary and the closeness of the pulpit. Felt like you could see everything there was to see, so there would be no surprises.

  Except it hadn’t worked out that way, had it?

  Ms. Marion was waiting for me up front, like always, and my stomach clenched. I walked down the center aisle real slow and when I reached the piano, I made a show of finding the envelope with her payment in it.

  Ms. Marion looked me over, top to bottom, and I waited for her to tell me how disappointed she’d been in me at June Fest, and how the choir had been depending on me and I’d let everyone down. I waited for the lecture about how great singers never gave up, even when life was hard.

  Ms. Marion paused. “Tia, how’s your mama?”

  That was the last thing I was expecting. My eyes opened wide. “Good, I guess,” I said. “Same as always.”

  “I see,” said Ms. Marion. “Didn’t she go to church here a long time ago? Evette tells me they used to be in the choir together.”

  I shook my head. “Not here,” I corrected. “They sang together in their high school choir.”

  “Ahh. And does she still sing?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “How about your father?” Ms. Marion asked. “Does he sing?”

  I just about choked on my own spit.

  “He’s . . . he’s in . . . prison,” I sputtered.

  Ms. Marion nodded. “I know, child,” she said. “But even in prison, people can still sing.”

  She might as well have said the sky was purple.

  Ms. Marion raised one eyebrow. “Would you like to talk about your father?”

  I didn’t answer. My stomach was too busy doing somersaults.

  Ms. Marion nodded like she’d figured out something important. “You see what happened there? First, you had a voice, talking to me and answering my questions, and then that voice just disappeared, didn’t it?”

  Ms. Marion took my hands in hers. “You know something, Tia?” she said. “You are the best singer in the entire choir. In fact, you’re the most naturally talented child I have ever met.”

  I looked up quick, and she smiled.

  “Don’t tell the others I said so, but it’s true. Out of that skinny little body of yours comes a sound so large, it gives me goose bumps. But I think you’ve got yourself blocked up, am I right? Saw it happen with my own eyes.”

  Shame crawled up my neck, and Ms. Marion sighed.

  “Have you done any singing since last Thursday?”

  I shook my head and felt the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.

  “And I bet you think if you could only get your mind to stop churning, everything would be fine, wouldn’t it?”

  I swallowed hard, thinking about my father and Danielle, and how all I’d been doing was dwelling on the miserable facts.

  “Ms. Marion?” I asked. “Do you believe in the stuff we sing about? I mean, about God being good and people going to heaven when they die? Do you think those songs are true, or did the people who wrote them just not know about all the bad things that happen in the world?”

  Ms. Marion held up one hand.

  “Oh, child,” she said, “you can’t imagine all of what those people knew.” She took a deep breath. “Most of what we sing is gospel. Do you know where gospel music comes from?”

  I shook my head.

  “Started with slavery,” Ms. Marion said. “Imagine you were taken from your home and your family and everything you knew, and all you had left was your memories and your music. Think how that music would bubble up out of your soul.” Ms. Marion took a breath in through her nostrils and then she sang.

  Deep river, my home is over Jordan,

  Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground,

  Oh, don’t you want to go to that gospel feast,

  That promised land where all is peace?

  “Slaves would sing as they worked in the fields, and little by little the Christian message made its way into those songs. Lord knows how anything beautiful could have come out of those troubled times, but it sure did.” She shook her head. “It sure did.”

  I thought that over. “So do you think they believed it?” I asked. “The good parts, I mean?”

  Ms. Marion scratched her chin. “Well, you’re talking about millions of people. I’m sure some of them sang out of hope, and some of them sang just to make the time tolerable. But what matters is what you believe.”

  “What if I don’t know?”

  Ms. Marion lifted my chin. “’Course you don’t know,” she said. “You’ve got to work it out.”

  My heart sunk, but Ms. Marion shook her head. “As for me? I don’t think the world is a bad place. And I don’t think a person can be completely bad either.”

  That caught me off guard, but Ms. Marion held me still with her eyes.

  “You know, sometimes if you’re having trouble creating something beautiful, you’ve got to find the joy in your life. Focus on the good things.” She sighed. “But I know that’s easier said than done.”

  I thought about gunshots piercing the air and a girl my age who’d never get to grow up. But then I thought about Dwayne’s firm hand at June Fest and Jerome covered in strawberry jam. Saturday morning feasts and favorite songs that could still make me smile.

  Ms. Marion handed me back the envelope with Ma’s money in it. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you time to figure this out. I won’t expect you at lessons until you’re ready. Come to rehearsals and listen in, but we’ll tell everyone you’re having throat problems. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  I was torn between disappointment and relief. I hated missing even one lesson, but for the first time in days I felt as if I might be able to sing again. I stuck the envelope in my pocket, thinking that Ma would never admit it, but she’d be glad to have that money back.

  “Thank you, Ms. Marion.”

  Ms. Marion gathered up her things. “Well, go on then,” she said, nodding for me to head out.

  Reluctantly, I left the enclosure of the dark church, moving out into the sun, then through the shade, and finally into the sun again. The whole time I saw myself as if from above, moving through the shadows and the sunshine, unsure if I’d ever come to a stop, but hoping I’d land in the light.

  CHAPTER 15

  AFTER LESSONS I’m supposed to go straight home. Ma is back from wor
k by then and if I’m even five minutes late, she’s got the phone in her hand ready to dial 911. But today I’d gotten out early.

  I thought about the bread Ma had promised to drop off and decided I’d be brave and write a note to go with it. I wasn’t sure what I’d say. Maybe just something plain, like you’d find in a card. Sorry for your loss. I guessed it didn’t really matter. What could words say, anyway? The point was that you wrote them.

  I wondered if the bread would still be in the metal mailbox outside the front door. Ma would’ve had to leave it there. Wasn’t any place else suitable. We’d wrapped it in layer upon layer of tin foil, so I supposed she could have left it by the front door, but I didn’t guess Ma would do that. I just hoped no one had come by to collect it already.

  When I arrived, there was an old lady at the top of the steps. She wore a long black dress, and her wrinkled face sagged.

  I stopped short.

  She was pulling things out of the mailbox: slim white envelopes, square colored cards, and small packages. When it was empty, she bent to pick up a basket someone had left on the stoop. It was filled with cookies and flowers, and for a moment I thought maybe Ma had put our bread in there, but I could see there wasn’t a loaf inside. I opened the wroughtiron gate and stepped into the yard as the old lady watched me from the top step.

  “Excuse me,” I said, real polite, “my mother left a loaf of homemade bread here, and I wanted to write a note to go with it, if that’s okay.”

  The woman looked confused, and I began to feel prickly.

  “Did you find some bread?” I asked, more slowly. “Here on the step or in the mailbox?”

  The old woman shrugged and said a stream of words I didn’t recognize.

  “Bread,” I said again, making the size and shape of the bread loaf with my hands. I pretended to eat and then felt foolish.

  The old woman tilted her head, gesturing to her full arms. “No bread.”

  My forehead crinkled. “But it must be there. Did you come by earlier today?”

  I knew she might not understand, but I couldn’t help saying the words.

  “This . . . everything,” the old woman said, nodding as if she was certain she’d made her point. She stepped gingerly down the first step, her arms full to overflowing, and at first I just stared at her, stunned.

  The old woman stumbled, and finally I remembered my manners and offered her my arm. She handed me the basket and smiled when I took it. When she’d made it all the way down the steps, we walked together to her car. She opened the front door, and as I set the basket inside, I looked up and saw the baby’s picture on the dashboard next to a small wooden cross. He was posed against one of those fake backdrops, smiling with two tiny teeth poking out of his bottom gum. He had beautiful blue eyes, pudgy cheeks, and little baby hands.

  I pulled away quick.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded as she buckled her seat belt, and then I watched the old woman drive off before turning and walking away. This time, I didn’t bother staying in the sunlight. I walked straight through the shadows without ever looking up.

  Why had we bothered to bake the bread if Ma had never meant to give it away?

  When I got back, Ma looked surprised to see me. She had her nightgown on, and I knew she was waiting for me to get home before she went to bed. She was always tired after working all night, but today I didn’t care. I was boiling mad and there wasn’t a single speck of room left for pity.

  “You’re home early,” she said, looking up from her magazine.

  I thrust the envelope from Ms. Marion at her. “Ms. Marion says we’ll be taking a break.”

  Ma took the money, cocking her head to one side. “Did she say why she—”

  “Did you drop off the bread?”

  Ma paused. “Are you all right?”

  She reached for my arm, but I pulled away.

  “I’m fine. I’ve just been . . . running, that’s all. Did you drop the bread off at the house?”

  Ma laughed, but it wasn’t her normal laugh. She refused to meet my eyes, and I knew for certain that our bread had ended up in the snack room at Winn-Dixie.

  “Of course I did,” Ma scoffed. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

  A thousand thoughts tumbled in my mind. I saw that little baby’s innocent face. Was there something so wrong with us that we weren’t even worthy of giving bread to his family?

  Ma was waiting for my response, but I brushed past her and ran down the hall to my room, slamming the door behind me. I heard Ma’s footsteps, and then there was a hard rapping sound on my door.

  “Tia, are you going to explain yourself?”

  I lay down on my bed and curled into a ball.

  “Tia?” Ma knocked again. There was a pause, and then Ma said, “You’d better tell me what’s the matter or—”

  “I started my period.”

  The lie came out before I’d had time to think about it. I just wanted her to leave me alone and quit asking questions. Even through the door I could hear Ma’s relief. I could hear her thinking, Ah, that explains everything.

  Her voice softened. “Oh honey, do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not now,” I said, forcing out the words. “Maybe later.”

  Ma laughed softly.

  “Definitely later,” she said. “Do you need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you lay down and rest for a while, and trust me, it will get better.”

  Liar, I thought. Liar. Liar. Liar.

  I might not have my period yet, but Keisha had told me all about it. “Everyone wants to make out like this is something beautiful and great,” she’d said, “but really, it’s annoying. I get pimples before and cramps during, but of course you’ve got to keep doing everything just like always, even gym class. And we’re going to go through this every single month until we’re old, but guys don’t have to feel a single cramp ever? That’s just plain wrong.”

  Even though she’d said that, I’d still wanted to start mine since it seemed like every other girl our age already had, and I’d secretly imagined the way I’d talk to Ma about it. Like we’d have some deep, shared understanding of womanhood. Now some part of me knew I’d ruined that future moment, but I didn’t care.

  CHAPTER 16

  FOR THE REST of that week, I stayed holed up in my bedroom.

  I lied to Keisha and told her I had a head cold, and I kept up my lie with Ma, telling her I had cramps and wanted to rest. She’d sat on the edge of my bed, giving me the lecture about what to do now that I was a woman, and I’d pretended to care, but as soon as she was gone, I’d shut my door again.

  One night I heard her on the phone with Ms. Evette.

  I suppose it’s natural for her to be hormonal right now.

  Was Keisha like this when she . . .

  I suspect you’re right, it’s just sometimes I think there’s something else.

  If Ma knew that all I was really doing in here was dwelling, she would’ve kicked me out of bed so fast, I would’ve broken the sound barrier. The truth was, I didn’t even know why Ma not delivering the bread hurt so bad. Why did I feel such deep-down shame that I couldn’t even tell my best friend in the entire world what had happened?

  Keisha called on Monday morning, and I could hear in her voice that she wasn’t messing around. “Why’d you tell me you had a head cold when really you started your period?”

  She hadn’t said hello or anything.

  “And you know you missed choir on Thursday, hanging out all weekend, and you haven’t called me in a whole week—not even to see how it’s going with Khalil. I’ve had bad cramps before, but you better be expelling a kidney, the way you’re acting.”

  I groaned. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?”r />
  “I didn’t start my period,” I blurted.

  “What?” Keisha said. “But I heard my mom talking to your mom, and she said—”

  “I lied.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Why would you lie about something like that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said miserably. “It just came out, and then I had to keep pretending, except I didn’t want to lie to you about that, so I came up with another lie. And then . . .”

  I heard Keisha breathing on the other end.

  “And then,” she repeated, like it was a statement.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  There was no sound for a long time.

  “You lied to your mother about getting your period?” Keisha repeated at last. “That’s rough. Why would you do that?”

  I wasn’t sure I could explain.

  “I just . . . I don’t know.”

  Keisha huffed.

  “You better hope you really do start up soon or you’re going to be pretending an awful lot. You’re gonna have to mark it on the calendar and everything, so you won’t forget.”

  I sighed. “I know,” I said. “It was stupid, but—”

  Keisha cut me off. “Honestly?” she said. “I knew you were lying about both things. The head cold was easy because you didn’t sound even a little stuffed up, but the rest of it . . . I don’t know. I just knew you would’ve told me.”

  We were both quiet, and then Keisha said, “You’re lucky I’m not a drama queen like Tyresha. If you had that girl for a best friend, she’d be texting up the entire choir to tell them all your secrets, and then she wouldn’t speak to you for, like, six months, only later she’d finally forgive you and you’d be best friends again. Me, I just cut to the chase.”

  For the first time in a week, I smiled. “Keisha,” I said, “no one else could ever be my best friend.”

  Keisha laughed. “Don’t you know it,” she said. “Now get your butt over here. Auntie Loretta’s been visiting all weekend and you haven’t even seen her yet. Mama wants us all to head out to the French Quarter together.”