Pretty Man didn’t know how Indigo played what she played, but he did know she had a gift. Spats had mentioned how the girl couldn’t play in her house ’less she agreed to take lessons. So a teacher for Indigo was out of the question. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, & Pretty Man hadn’t gotten this far ’cause of a lack of imagination. No. There was something real simple that he could do. Pretty Man liked the simple things in life: money, a good woman, respect. Mabel, his girl, was a simple sweet woman who helped out in the social room. Pretty Man sent Mabel in her tight straight red skirt out in the streets looking for any records with violin playing on ’em. They were gonna replace the jukebox for a while. “Yes,” he said to himself, “Digo gonna play it by ear, here, for a time. For some time.”
Mabel, who was as dutiful as a southern girl could be, came back from all the record stores with a peculiar assortment of violin melodies & violinists. Yehudi Menuhin plays Bartók, Violin Concerto #2. Papa John Creach. Duke Ellington’s Jazz Violin Session with Svend Asmussen, Stéphane Grappelli, Ray Nance, & Billy Strayhorn. Heifetz plays Bach, Unaccompanied Sonatas & Partitas. Plus Stuff Smith. “I got one of every violiner they had,” Mabel cooed. Pretty Man looked at each album. Nodded his head. “Get these on that ol’ jukebox for me, okay?” It was done.
Pretty Man offered Indigo a dollar for every one of the tunes she learned to play by ear, or to play as the record played. Pretty Man called everything from Bach to Ellington a tune. If it was Smith’s “Blues in the Dungeon,” that was a tune. Just as Bartók’s 2nd movement, andante tranquillo, was a tune. Indigo didn’t jump at the chance to change her aesthetic. In fact, she told Pretty Man there was no sense at all in playing something that somebody else could already play. But Spats & Crunch had a meeting on the matter, determined that Indigo’s pursuits would mightily enhance the Jr. G.C. treasury. Even Indigo didn’t argue ’gainst that. Imagine all the finery & catfish the Jr. Geechee Capitans could offer the not-so-well-off Colored, now Christmas was coming. Indigo, indeed, had made her presence felt in the small gang since her initiation. Give gifts to those who should know love. Give hell to those who take us lightly. New mottos. New priorities emerging for the Geechee Capitans.
Pretty Man gave Mabel change for the jukebox, whenever Indigo was training. Indigo didn’t do badly. Yet the nuance & dexterity of the masters occasionally eluded her, her personal rhythms running contrary to theirs. The octaves she chose, not the ones sounded by Creach or Heifetz. Then, too, one time she forgot she wasn’t to take solos during Ellington’s “Tricky Licks” and played all on top of Ray Nance. Pretty Man was impressed by Indigo’s determination to rise up to the challenge. Mabel was concerned, ’cause folks used to the child’s fiddlin’ till they souls spoke, were getting cantankerous, leaving early, not leaving tips, being genuinely unpleasant. Missing something.
Late one afternoon when the social room was usually crowded with menfolks & womenfolks, going on ’bout the Colored, the day’s doings, and what might be in the cards, Mabel watched. Nothing going on but Indigo & that jukebox. Violins. Violins. Violins, white folks done come up from they grave to drive the Colored out of a nice spot, they spot. All this fiddlin’ was makin’ folks unhappy, not wanting no drinks, not wanting the hush puppies, greens, & catfish Mabel prepared with so much spice. All them empty tables. All them fiddles. It was better before, when the girl played her own mind. There was a fullness to conversation then. Plus, Pretty Man spoke to her ’bout more than how was Indigo playing. “What’s the girl doing on her fiddle these days?” he’d ask. Like all Mabel had to do was remember each time she’d heard “Blues in C” or “Arabian Song, No. 42.” No. No. Mabel looked at Indigo sitting by the jukebox, listening, fingering, humming. No more. Mabel pulled the plug out the wall. Took a step toward Indigo. “Indigo, give me that fiddle. Right this minute, do you hear me? Pretty Man don’t want no more fiddlin’ round heah. Now, c’mon, give it heah.” Indigo moved quick, like moonlight. “Spats. Crunch. G.C. in trouble. G.C. in trouble.” Indigo let the force of her own style of fiddle-fightin’ come to the fore. Such a war-cry bouncing in the social room where hips & bosoms used to shake. Mabel was overwhelmed by her mission to have things be the way they used to be, not understanding that Indigo’s existence made that impossible.
Spats & Crunch came running. Spats threw chairs in fronta Mabel’s every step. Crunch kept Mabel’s grabbing hands off Indigo’s face & fiddle. Mabel took on the attributes of a lioness, prowling, growling. It was everything the boys could do to save Indigo; her hair or her fiddle.
Mabel proceeded to attack the boys with her nails, her heels, her teeth, her voice. She callt on everybody: Moses & her mother. “Jesus, get that fiddle out my life.” Spats had some scratches. Crunch was generally a mess. They were all a little scared. Mabel was shouting for Pretty Man. Pretty Man was Mabel’s man. They were in a lot of trouble.
Spats thought they should get on outta Sneed’s. “My brother ain’t gonna stand for us fightin’ his woman.” Fiddle in arm, Indigo clammered thru the caverns, Spats & Crunch beside her. “We in for it now. Damn we might haveta hide out, when Pretty Man know what we done!” Crunch’s hearing wasn’t subtle enough to catch Mabel’s screams. Pretty Man having one of his tempers. Indigo slowed down. “We ain’t the ones haveta run nowhere.” Spats was impatient. “We got ta keep movin’.” Crunch was already gone. Spats tried pulling Indigo by her free arm. “Digo, c’mon. We cain’t let Pretty Man catch us. Let’s go.” Indigo shook her head. “No, I’ma go back & see to Mabel.” & Spats was gone.
Indigo felt The Caverns for the first time. The air was dark, heavy. The baking breads wafted thru her nostrils, leaden. Her fiddle, as she let it fall over her side, weighed down on her spirit. Shame crawled up her cheeks. She was going to see about Mabel. Mabel had gotten in trouble ’cause of Indigo’s fiddle, ’cause Indigo was a Geechee Capitan. Mabel was just some woman. One day Indigo would be a woman, too. The shame etched tears down her face, pushed her back toward the social room. Fear dashed her ’gainst the wall in the dark, when Pretty Man, as pretty as ever, briskly went up to the bakery. He was putting his shirt back in his pants as he walked, straightening himself up. Indigo wisht the switchblade handles on her violin case were knives. She’d have them all land in his back, but she didn’t want to hurt anybody else. The Colored had been hurt enough already.
The Caverns began to moan, not with sorrow but in recognition of Indigo’s revelation. The slaves who were ourselves had known terror intimately, confused sunrise with pain, & accepted indifference as kindness. Now they sang out from the walls, pulling Indigo toward them. Indigo ran her hands along the walls, to get the song, getta hold to the voices. Instead her fingers grazed cold, hard metal rings. Rust covered her palms & fingers. She kept following the rings. Chains. Leg irons. The Caverns revealed the plight of her people, but kept on singing. The tighter Indigo held the chains in her hands, the less shame was her familiar. Mabel’s tiny woeful voice hovered over the blood thick chorus of The Caverns. Indigo knew her calling. The Colored had hurt enough already.
EMERGENCY CARE OF OPEN WOUNDS / WHEN IT HURTS
by Indigo
Calmly rinse the wound with copious amounts of cold tap water. This will significantly reduce the possibilities of infection. If available, use clean linen applied firmly against the wound to inhibit bleeding. If the pressure is not adequate, do it again. Another method allows the bottom of a stainless-steel saucepan to be applied to the wound. The cold of the pan reduces swelling as well as bleeding. A poultice of mandrake berries can be of great use also, until further care can be offered.
EMERGENCY CARE OF WOUNDS THAT CANNOT BE SEEN
Hold the victim gently. Rock in the manner of a quiet sea. Hum softly from your heart. Repeat the victim’s name with love. Offer a brew of red sunflower to cleanse the victim’s blood & spirit. Fasting & silence for a time refurbish the victim’s awareness of her capacity to nourish & heal herself. New associations should be made with caution, more ca
ring for herself.
Indigo carefully wrapped her dolls in sheets of white cotton she’d borrowed from her mother’s weaving rooms. To the left of the moon she’d painted on her wall was a growing mound of white ovals with little cloth feet sticking out. The sun was fading. Fine tints of orange lingered on the edges of the dolls’ heads, which all pointed to the east. Indigo had wrapped Marie-Hélène & Miranda last. Hugging them both, kissing their foreheads, holding them at arms’ length to get one final glimpse of those who had been her closest friends. After a final curtsey to the shrouded companions, Indigo played what she remembered of Bartók. Each note demanding precision, honesty, and depth.
Lord, this child is a miracle, thought her mother, Hilda Effania, as she listened & watched from the door. She’d stolen up the back stairs as quickly as she could when she’d heard real music coming from Indigo’s room. Yet now she felt a regret that she’d forbidden the child her willful desire to play her soul. It was true like Aunt Haydee said, “A youngun’ll come up with what you want, when ya leave ’em the room to find it.” Indigo finished all the lyrical fragments she could from heart, plus she’d added a tag from “Cotton Tail.” Bowing very formally, legato, Indigo turned to put her fiddle in its case. She saw her mother, hesitated, and stammered, “Mama, I think it’s time I stopped playing with dolls, don’t you?”
“Well, I do recall sayin’ something like that one of those terribly busy days, when I already had my hands full. Musta been the day you wanted a ‘period’ dinner . . .”
“No, a menstruation dinner, Mama.”
“That’s right, I do believe I tol’ you to pack ’em up in the attic.” Hilda Effania bit her lips, smuggled a smile out of her concern for her child. “Indigo, you don’t haveta bury the girls. I think they look wonderful here in your room. As long as I can remember, you’ve gone to bed with your dollies. No matter how angry I was when I said what I said, you know I don’t hold a soul to my every word. You keep your dolls as long as you want. Why, I think at least Miranda can come to Christmas dinner.” Hilda Effania wanted Indigo to lose this forlorn curve in her back, the sadness in her gaze. But Indigo was resolute.
“No, Mama. I don’t think they’re quite dead, they’re just resting, I think.” Indigo looked up at her mama wanting very much. All she said was: “Mama, I couldn’t bear for them to grow up. I couldn’t stand it, Mama. I just couldn’t.”
Hilda Effania really didn’t know what was the matter. She knew to hold Indigo close to her, to say her name over & over till the child was ready to talk.
“Mama, it’s hard, isn’t it?”
“What’s hard, Indigo?”
“Being a grown colored woman is hard, ain’t it? Just like you tol’ me. Just ’cause I haveta grow up, my dolls don’t haveta. I can save them. Mama, let’s take them to the attic. You & me. I don’t even wanta invite Mrs. Yancey, though Miranda will miss her. Just you & me, let’s do something very special.”
Hilda Effania sat Indigo down on the bed with her. She rocked her baby in her arms, patted her back, hummed a tune as she made it up.
“I don’t know that it’s all that hard to be a full-grown colored woman, Indigo. I can imagine not wanting your friends to grow up, though. If they grow up, eventually, they will haveta go. But, you know they could stay little girls forever.”
“How, Mama?”
“You know it’s Christmas time, & there’s hundreds of other little girls, oh tiny little girls, who’d take real good care of Miranda, Marie-Hélène & all the rest of them. & you & I know there’s no dollies in the whole world quite like these.” Hilda Effania tried so hard not to laugh. She had flashes of Indigo stealing rice from the kitchen, buttons from the sewing room, bits of satin from patterns for Miz Fitzhugh’s ball gowns. “Like I was saying, Indigo, there’s no dollies like this anywhere on the earth.”
“You mean, give ’em away to strangers?” Indigo asked, indignant.
“You said they weren’t dead, just resting,” Hilda Effania responded, while she put Indigo’s Stetson on her head. “You know, for a man’s hat, that’s pretty sharp, Indigo.”
Indigo pulled the hat off her head, thought a second. Stood in front of her mother with a desperate air.
“Mama, I’ll make the other lil girls new dollies, honest I will. I promise. But I want you & me to have a ceremony for my dollies & let em rest till I have a baby, or till Cypress or Sassafrass has a baby. Please Mama, I want them to stay with the family.”
It was true. After Indigo there’d be no more babies in the family till one of her girls was grown enough to bring one home. Hilda Effania couldn’t agree more with Indigo’s familial fervor. After all, she was devoted to her daughters. Now, Indigo, all of 12, was saving her most treasured possessions for the daughters to come. This made sense to Hilda Effania, who’d seen those other two grow up much too fast. This was the day that Indigo caught up with them.
“Okay, what sort of ceremony do you want to have?”
“I want you to sing some holy song, while I carry them one by one to the attic. That’s what I wanta do, Mama. Then I wanta come downstairs & help you make the gumbo for when Cypress & Sassafrass come home. Can I, please?” Indigo was excited, beginning & ending the largest segment of her life.
Hilda Effania changed her clothes once she got in the spirit of things. She put on a crêpe dress with pearls & black velvet round the shoulders, a little lipstick, some mascara. At her suggestion, Indigo put on her white taffeta Communion dress. Hilda Effania stationed herself at the foot of the second-floor stairs leading to the attic. Indigo solemnly carried each doll up the curving steps, as her mother’s voice rose behind her to the rafters:
“Jesus lover of my soul
Hide me, oh my Savior
Hide me till the storm of life is past
While the stormy waters roll
While the tempest still is high.”
“Mama, this gumbo is ridiculous.” Sassafrass was eating so fast she could barely get the words out of her mouth. “Mama, you know if I told them white folks at the Callahan School that I wanted some red sauce & rice with shrimp, clams, hot sausage, corn, okra, chicken & crab meat, they’d go round the campus sayin, ‘You know that Negro girl overdoes everything. Can you imagine what she wanted for dinner?’ ” Cypress was at the side board of the sink doing pliés which Sassafrass’ story had interrupted.
“Hey S., don’t tell no more jokes. I can’t do my exercises.”
“I helped Mama make that gumbo, Sassafrass. I’m so glad you like it,” chirped Indigo at the table, working on a doll for some little girl her mother said Santa wouldn’t be visiting.
Hilda Effania was ecstatic. All her girls were home. Cypress was back from studying dance in New York. Sassafrass had made that terrible bus trip from New England. As much as they’d changed she still recognized them as her children. Spinning in the kitchen, while her girls did whatever they were going to do, was her most precious time.
From her corner view, she could see everyone. Sassafrass was still eating & still heavy hipped. If the white folks’ food was so awful, you sure couldn’t tell it. On the other hand, Cypress was too thin round her waist. It was as if she was rejecting the body the Lord gave her. There is nothing can be done with a colored behind. Hilda knew Cypress was so determined to be a ballet dancer she’d starve, but never lose that backside. Indigo was making every effort to be in on the big girls’ talk. Hilda spun her fleece. Later, they’d all help her dye, warp, & weave. They always did.
“Sassafrass, it’s ‘those’ white folks, not ‘them.’ Cypress, your sister’s name is Sassafrass, not ‘S.’ ”
In the midst of an arabesque penché Cypress retorted, “So tell me something I don’t know.”
Hilda Effania took a deep breath, sighed quite loudly. These northern ways would haveta be quieted. “I’m sorry, Cypress, I don’t think I heard what you said.” Cypress returned to first position, bras en répos.
“Aw, Mama, that’s a turn of phrase. You know, s
ome slang.”
“Sounded like a fresh somebody to me,” Hilda said, without loosing the gait of her spinning.
“Vocabulary is simply a way of knowing & letting others know your intentions. That’s what Madame says.” Cypress executed a croisé devant, balanced, smiled.
“& does Madame encourage you to insult your mother?” Hilda went on. Sassafrass was looking very bored, though Cypress kept trying to impress them with her new skills: rond de jambe en l’air; gargouillade; cabriole, brisé. Repeating the words, with each movement.
“Cypress, do you speak English anymore? Or has everyone in New York learned French in deference to the ballet?” Indigo laughed. Hilda smiled inside. Cypress relaxed her body & looked more like herself to Hilda.
“Mama, would you explain to my sister from the woods that I was trying to offer her some culture.”
“She’s right there. You can tell her.”
“Cypress, I am going to a school where culture is never mentioned, per se, because all those white folks up there is ‘culture,’ or so they’d like us to believe.” Sassafrass leaned back in her chair. Cypress was right. What she was doing was so pretty. Cypress was in her own way offering a gift.
“Cypress, could you show me some of that? I mean, how you do that? Those WASPs don’t look like you when they do it. You make it look so easy.”
Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo Page 5
