“Well if they bothering you so much, you do something about ’em.”
“Is that some sass comin’ out your mouth?”
“No, M’am. It’s just I don’t understand why any ol’ white person from outta nowhere would want to hurt us. That’s all.”
Indigo moved to her mother, with a seriousness about her that left the kitchen emptied of all its fullness and aroma.
“I love you so much, Mama. & you are a grown colored woman. Some white man could just come hurt you, any time he wants, too? Oh I could just kill ’em, if they hurt you, Mama. I would. I would just kill anybody who hurt you.”
Holding her child as tight as she could, as close into herself as she could, the mother whispered as softly as she could, as lovingly as she could: “Well, then we’ll both be careful & look after each. Won’t we?”
Indigo sort of nodded her head, but all she remembered was that even her mother was scared of white folks, and that she still wrote out the word Kotex on a piece of torn paper wrapped up in a dollar bill to give to Mr. Lucas round to the pharmacy. This, though Indigo insisted Mr. Lucas must know what it is, ’cause he ordered it for his store so all the other colored women could have it when they needed it. After all, even her mother said, this bleeding comes without fail to every good girl once a month. Sometimes her mother made no sense at all, Indigo thought with great consternation. On the other hand, as a gesture of goodwill & in hopes that her littlest girl would heed her warnings, the mother allowed Indigo one more public jaunt with Miranda, who was, according to Indigo, fraught with grief that their outings were to be curtailed.
Weeping willows curled up from the earth, reaching over Indigo & Miranda on this their last walk in a long friendship, a simple, laughing friendship. Miranda thought the weeping willows were trying to hug them, to pull them up to the skies where whether you were real or not didn’t matter. Indigo, in her most grown-up voice, said, “No, they want us to feel real special on this day, that’s all.” Miranda wasn’t convinced, and neither was Indigo, who managed to take the longest walk to the drugstore that her family had ever known.
After following the willows’ trellises till there were no more, Indigo reverently passed by Mrs. Yancey’s, back round to Sister Mary Louise’s, down to the wharf where she & Miranda waved to her father who was living in the sea with mermaids, & then ’cross to the railroad tracks looking for Uncle John. Indigo liked colored folks who worked with things that took ’em some place: colored folks on ships, trains, trolleys, & horses. Yoki was a horse. Uncle John did go places, and after that night with Mrs. Yancey in the street, Indigo figured him mighty powerful.
In between two lone railroad cars was Uncle John’s wagon. Sequestered from ill-wishers & the wind, there he was chatting away with the air, the cars, or Yoki. Sometimes men of Color disappear into the beauty of the light, especially toward day’s end. It’s like clouds take on color & get down on the ground & talk to you, or the stars jump in some black man’s body & shine all over you. Uncle John was looking like that to Indigo’s mind, just brushing away, leaving Yoki’s coat glimmering like dusk.
“Good evening, Uncle John.”
“Humph.” Mr. Henderson turned round knowing full well who’d come calling, but not wanting to let on. “Oh. If it ain’t my girl Indigo. & who’s that ya got witcha?”
“This is Miranda. We’re going to Mr. Lucas’ to pick up something.” Indigo was quite careful not to say what she was going to the drugstore for, ’cause her mother had said not to say anything to anybody.
“Indigo, Mr. Lucas’ place way off from heah, don’t ya think?”
“Well, Uncle John, that’s some of it, but not all of it.”
Laying down his brush, pulling a stool from the other side of a fire where he was cooking either a chicken or a pigeon, Uncle John motioned for Indigo to take a seat.
“Some of it, but t’aint all of it, ya say? Well, I would be guessin’ the rest of it be a matter for discussion.”
“Yes, Uncle John. I want you to tell me something. I’m asking you ’cause you been doin’ what suits your own mind since I was born.”
“No, long fo’ that, chile.”
“Well, anyway, I want to keep on talkin’ with all my dolls. You know they my very best friends.” Indigo was talking so fast now, Uncle John started walking in a circle around her so as to understand better. “& Mama wants me to put ’em way ’cause now I am a woman & who will I talk to? I can’t seem to get on with the chirren in the school I go ta. I don’t like real folks near as much.” Indigo had jumped off the stool with Miranda in her arms, much like a woman daring someone to touch her child. Uncle John stood still for a minute, looking at the shadows of the rail cars on Yoki’s back.
“Indigo, times catch up on everybody. Me & Yoki heah been catched up by trains & grocery stores. Now you bein’ catched up by ya growin’ up. That’s what ya mama’s tryin’ to say to ya. Ya gotta try to be mo’ in this world. I know, it don’t suit me either.”
Miranda was crying, nestled in Indigo’s elbow. Uncle John mumbled to himself, & climbed in his wagon. Indigo stayed put. Folks said that sometimes, when Uncle John had said all he had to say, he got in his wagon & that was that. Other times folks said Uncle John would get in his wagon & come back out with something to keep your life moving along sweeter. So Indigo didn’t move a muscle. Miranda prayed some good would come of all this. They still hadn’t gone to Mr. Lucas’. Indigo could hear Uncle John humming to himself, fumbling in that wagon. He was looking for something for her so she could keep talkin’ & not have to be with them real folks & all their evil complicated ways of doing. The last of the day’s sun settled on Indigo’s back, warmed the taut worry out of her limbs, & sat her back down on the stool, jabbering away to Miranda.
“See, you thought that I was gonna just go on & do what Mama said & never play witya no more or go explore & make believe. See, see, ya didn’t have no faith. What’s that Sister Mary Louise is all the time sayin’?”
“Oh ye of lil faith . . .” Miranda rejoined.
Uncle John didn’t come out of his wagon first. A fiddle did. Uncle John was holding it, of course, but he poked the fiddle out, then one leg, his backside, and the other leg, his precious greying head, and the last arm with a bow in his grasp. Indigo & Miranda were suspicious.
“What we need a violin for?” Miranda sniggled.
“Hush, Miranda, Uncle John knows what he’s doin’. Just wait a minute, will ya?”
Uncle John sure nuf had intentions to give this fiddle to Indigo. His face was beaming, arms wide open, with the fiddle & bow tracing the horizons, moving toward Indigo who was smiling with no reason why.
“Indigo, this heah is yo’ new talkin’ friend.”
“A fiddle, Uncle John?” Indigo tried to hide her disappointment, but Miranda hit her in her stomach. “Uh, that’s not what I need, Uncle John.” She sat back on the stool like she’d lost her backbone. Uncle John was a bit taken back, but not swayed.
“Listen now, girl. I’ma tell ya some matters of the reality of the unreal. In times blacker than these,” Uncle John waved the violin & the bow toward the deepening night, “when them slaves was ourselves & we couldn’t talk free, or walk free, who ya think be doin’ our talkin’ for us?”
“White folks, of course,” snapped Indigo.
Uncle John’s face drew up on his bones like a small furious fire. His back shot up from his legs like a mahogany log.
“Whatchu say, gal?? I caint believe ya tol’ me some white folks was doin’ our talkin’. Now, if ya want me to help ya, don’t say nary another word to me till I’m tellin’ ya I’m finished. Now, listen. Them whites what owned slaves took everythin’ was ourselves & didn’t even keep it fo’ they own selves. Just threw it on away, ya heah. Took them drums what they could, but they couldn’t take our feet. Took them languages what we speak. Took off wit our spirits & left us wit they Son. But the fiddle was the talkin’ one. The fiddle be callin’ our gods what left us/be givin’ ba
ck some devilment & hope in our bodies worn down & lonely over these fields & kitchens. Why white folks so dumb, they was thinkin’ that if we didn’t have nothin’ of our own, they could come controllin’, meddlin’, whippin’ our sense on outta us. But the Colored smart, ya see. The Colored got some wits to em, you & me, we ain’t the onliest ones be talkin’ wit the unreal. What ya think music is, whatchu think the blues be, & them get happy church musics is about, but talkin’ wit the unreal what’s mo’ real than most folks ever gonna know.”
With that Uncle John placed the fiddle in the middle of his left arm & began to make some conversations with Miranda & Indigo. Yes, conversations. Talkin’ to em. Movin’ to an understandin’ of other worlds. Puttin’ the rhythm in a good sit down & visit. Bringin’ the light out a good cry. Chasing the night back round yonder. Uncle John pulled that bow, he bounced that bow, let the bow flirt with those strings till both Miranda & Indigo were most talkin’ in tongues. Like the slaves who were ourselves had so much to say, they all went on at once in the voices of the children: this child, Indigo.
When Indigo first tried to hold the fiddle under her neck like the children in the orchestra at school, Uncle John just chuckled, looked away. When she had it placed nearer her armpit & closer to her heart, with the bow tucked indelicately in her palm, he said, “Now talk to us, girl.” Indigo hesitated, pulled the bow toward the A string, took a breath, & stopped. “I don’t know how to play a violin, Uncle John.”
“Yeah, ya do. Tell Miranda somethin’ on that fiddle. ’Cause after today, ya won’t be able to reach out to her like ya do now. Ya gonna haveta call her out, wit that fiddle.”
Indigo looked at Miranda lying on the stool & then back at Uncle John whose eyes were all over her face, the fiddle, the bow. & in a moment like a fever, Indigo carried that bow cross those fiddle strings till Miranda knew how much her friend loved her, till the slaves who were ourselves made a chorus round the fire, till Indigo was satisfied she wasn’t silenced. She had many tongues, many spirits who loved her, real & unreal.
The South in her.
It was already so late Mr. Lucas had started to lock up his shop. Only the lights in the very back were still on. Indigo held onto her violin with its musty case religiously, & she beat on the doors of the pharmacy like somebody possessed. “Please open up, Mr. Lucas. It’s a emergency,” she shouted. Mr. Lucas, portly & honey brown, peered out the door thru the lettering: Lucas’ Pharmacy, Oldest Negro Drugstore in Charleston, S.C. Between the “S” & the “C” there was Indigo’s face, churning & shouting. Mr. Lucas opened up remarking, “An emergency is somebody dyin’ or a woman who needs some Kotex.” Indigo was stunned. “Hi, Mr. Lucas, how’d you know that?”
“Oh, I been in this business a long time, Indigo. Tell your mother she almost missed me this time.”
“Oh, it’s not for Mama, it’s for me.” All of a sudden Indigo blushed & shrank. She’d gone & done what her mother had asked her please not to do. Mr. Lucas took a step toward Indigo, like he was looking for the woman in her. He’d seen younger girls than Indigo who were busy having babies. He’d even seen girls more comely in a grown-woman manner than she who didn’t bleed at all. But here was this girl with this child body & woman in her all at once. It was difficult for Mr. Lucas to just go & get the Kotex. He wanted to keep looking at this girl, this woman. He wanted to know what she felt like.
Indigo heard somebody talking to her. She saw Mr. Lucas coming toward her & somebody talking to her. Telling her to get the Kotex & get home quick. Get the Kotex & get home quick. Indigo ran to the back of the store, grabbed the blue box, stuffed it under her arm with Miranda & whipped thru the aisles with Mr. Lucas behind her, lumbering, quiet. The fiddle was knocking all kinds of personal hygiene products off shelves: toothpaste, deodorant, shaving cream. Indigo almost dropped it, but she held tighter, moved faster, heard somebody telling her to get home quick. She got to the doors, started to look back & didn’t. She just opened the door as best she could without letting go of anything & ran out.
Mr. Lucas stood in the back of his pharmacy, looking at his S.C. Certification, his diploma from Atlanta University. He knew he might be in some trouble. Didn’t know what had got hold to him. Every once in a while, he saw a woman with something he wanted. Something she shouldn’t have. He didn’t know what it was, an irreverence, an insolence, like the bitch thought she owned the moon.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Mr. Lucas relaxed. “The whole town knows that child’s crazed. If she says a thing, won’t a soul put no store in it.”
The South in her.
TO RID ONESELF OF THE SCENT OF EVIL*
by Indigo
(Traditional Method)
Though it may cause some emotional disruptions, stand absolutely still & repeat the offender’s name till you are overwhelmed with the memory of your encounter. Take two deep slow breaths, on a 7 count. Then, waving your arms & hands all about you, so your atmosphere may again be clean, say the name of the offender softly. Each time blowing your own breath into the world that we may all benefit from your renewal. Then in a hot place (your kitchen or out of doors) cover yourself in warm clay poultices. Let them dry on you, taking the poisons of the offender out of your body & spirit. Run a steaming shower over your body, allowing all grime & other to fall from you without using your hands or a cloth. Then, run yourself a new tub full of warm water filled with angelica & chamomile. Bring to your bath a tall clear glass of spring water wherein floats one closed white rose. Lying in your fragrant bath, sip the rose’s water, for you are again among nature’s flowers.
*(Violence or purposeful revenge should not be considered in most cases. Only during wars of national liberation, to restore the honor of the race, or to redress calamitous personal & familial trauma, may we consider brute force/annihilation.)
(For Modern Times)
Drink a strong mix of lemon tea & honey. This, if you’ve not cheated, should bring sweat to your brow. This is the poison the offender has left lurking. As you sweat, draw a bath that sends steam up toward your face, if you are on your knees. Take a piece of silk or cotton to which you feel attached & that bodes of happier times. Fill it with caraway seeds. Tie it with a ribbon that is your oldest female relative’s favorite color. Float it in your bath. Stand naked over your tub. Kiss your right shoulder. Then your left. Step breathing briskly into the water. You shall be cleaned of all the offender’s toxic presence.
Indigo did not tell her mother about Mr. Lucas being so evil, nor did she mention that her new fiddle could talk. These notions would bring her mother’s ire up & out. Nowadays Indigo minded what she said & to whom. Some folks you tell some things, some folks you don’t. With the dolls all lined up in her room now, no longer going calling, coming down for dinner, Indigo kept her window open all the time. She told her mother this was just for health reasons. Why New England people sleep with the windows open in snow: gives the body & spirit strength. Now, her mother didn’t want her own windows open, but it seemed like Indigo was making more reasonable connections. The windows in the child’s room stayed open.
Indigo invited the Moon in to sing to her doll-companions, mute though they were. She thought they had trouble sleeping. When the night air danced about them, leaving the shivers of that embrace, Indigo would take out her violin & play the way she learned. Letting the instrument speak right up. Giving another space to all the feelings her little girl’s body could not always contain. The talking music aroused the dolls to celebrate. Indigo sat in her window, working with her fiddle, telling everybody, the wind & all his brothers, what was on her mind, the turmoil in the spirit realm, the luxuriant realities she meandered in her sleep. Whenever she wanted to pray, she let her fiddle talk. Whenever she was angry, here came the fiddle. All the different ways of handling a violin & bow came to Indigo as she needed. They came: legato, staccato, andante, forte, fortissimo, piano, allegro, presto.
“Indigo, we’re going to have to talk about this violin.” Indigo was startled by her
mother’s nocturnal visit. The breeze felt good on her face. Indigo turned gently from the soft rumble of a sea-town night to her mother.
“Oh, I’m so glad, Mama. I wanted to talk to you about the fiddle some more, but I was afraid you . . .”
“Why Indigo, how could you think I wouldn’t find somebody to give you lessons. I gave Sassafrass every weaving lesson she asked for, sent Cypress to New York for her dancing. Why wouldn’t I give you violin lessons? Surely, there’s one brave soul in Charleston who’ll take this terrible-playing child of mine.”
Indigo looked at her mother for a long while. Her mother feeling very proud of her daughter who’d tried to teach herself how to play the fiddle, who’d given up talking out of her head, talking only to her dolls. She glanced at her child’s handiwork, Marie-Hélène, Miranda, Susie-Q, Candace, Lilli, fingering their hats and petticoats delicately. Now Indigo was involved with music which she would be as diligent & loving about as she had about her dolls, her companions, as she called them. The mother looked over to Indigo still sitting in the window. Not a word did she say, there in the window with her violin in an acceptable rest position.
“Now Indigo, what do you say to real violin lessons & closing that window so our neighbors can be spared this racket till you’ve learned a bit more?” Approaching her daughter with some glee, the mother stopped when Indigo turned her back, stood up, & began making those strange, erratic, annoying non-songs she played each night, that Miz Fitzhugh had complained about twice, along with the Daltons. Even Mr. Epps who lived three doors down & across the street had stopped by on his way to the post office to say, “Please do something about those noises from your house, or I’ll have to call the constable round this way.”
No, Indigo would not have her way this time. She wasn’t going to be run out of her own home cause Indigo was playing a violin. She had to have some lessons ’cause these folks didn’t realize the passion her daughter had for the violin.
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo Page 3
