Your grandmother had been at that sink when I left at dawn and she was still at that sink. And it was the same song:
Oh, I don’t feel no ways tired.
I’ve come too far from where I started from.
Nobody told me that the road would be easy—no, no
I don’t believe He brought me this far—
I won’t believe He brought me this far—
I can’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.
Only this time her words were sending up piercing echoes within me because I had been saying that to myself all day: How could I believe?
There was one place setting at the table. Baked chicken tonight, she said before turning back to the sink to continue draining the water from a pot of fresh beets. I waited for her to say something else—surely, a comment about your appearance—but she went back to softly murmuring those verses. I sensed a waiting on her part as well. A waiting tinged with a subtle edge of disappointment that stung. I was doing everything I could.
“They burned my boat,” I spit out.
“Because they like you.”
“Then they must hate your granddaughter—I was going to get her some help.”
She didn’t answer as she turned on the faucet to rinse away the splattered red stains in her sink. Then she picked up the paring knife and began to skin the warm beets. The juice ran over her fingers like blood.
“It’s the only way I could help,” I said.
She nodded as she took my plate and began to slice the beets onto it. How did she think I could eat? Getting angry at her for that was easier than facing the reason why I was really angry.
“And she needs help badly,” I continued sharply. “Have you seen her?”
“I don’t have to see her,” Miss Abigail said. She took an eternity to wipe her hands on that dishtowel, leaving long red smears running against the grain of the terrycloth as she cleaned each finger, concentrating so hard I was sure she’d forgotten I was there. It was only a whisper. “But have you seen her?”
What little strength I had was draining away. I fought the urge to simply lay my head down on my folded arms and never leave that table. The Formica was cool to the touch and firm, the edges shiny and clean. Just let my aching shoulders follow the pull of gravity to slowly keel over on that surface and pillow my head in my arms as I stretched out my cramping leg muscles. Did she realize what effort it took for me to open my mouth instead to ask her, “What can I do?” And surely, she must have realized that when she answered, “Please, George, go to the other place,” that the road I took south to work on the night shift at the bridge was a much longer walk.
I woke up to an empty bedroom bathed in moonlight and the ever-present sound of running water accompanying my grandmother’s voice. Where was George? Could he still be working on the bridge? The stench was horrible in that bed and it coated my tongue so heavily that the little saliva I had was bitter when I swallowed. It was reaching a point where I couldn’t stand it anymore. There is a limit to how long you can feel your insides being gnawed away without beginning to lose your mind. And I had been fighting to remain sane, for your sake as well as my own. But they were multiplying up toward my throat, and once I saw that I was spitting out worms, it would surely take me over the edge. If I was going to die, I didn’t want it to happen while I was ranting and raving.
For a moment there was total silence in the house. Silence except for the tiny gnawing, like the scraping of rough cloth, inside of me. My God, was I alone? Without the sound of the water, their chewing magnified in my ears, and yes, they were moving faster. I opened my mouth to scream and the first beginnings of a high-pitched note was taken up by Grandma’s voice as she came into the room:
No, I don’t feel no ways tired.
I’ve come too far from where I started from.
She sat on the bed, gathered me in her arms, and with the flat of her hand, she began to stroke—my back, my arms, my chest. A heavily veined and wrinkled hand with soft palms pressing firmly up and down my skin:
Nobody told me that the road would be easy—no, no
I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.
When her hand passed over a place where they were burrowing, they would remain still until she went on to another part of my body. And by the time they had built up momentum again, she was back there stroking.
I don’t believe He brought me this far—
I won’t believe He brought me this far—
I can’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.
Her one hand against so many of them. If only there was a way to bring me this kind of peace forever. The last thing I remember was her leaning over to whisper, Don’t worry, I won’t sleep.
I had a lot of time to think that night, surrounded by smoking kerosene lamps that seemed almost unnecessary with the moon being so bright. I took the job of stirring the tar, because I was too bleary-eyed to have seen how to align the boards and hit a nail properly. My efforts would have only slowed up the work, and they were determined that the bridge was to be built right, built to last, or not at all, so that there would be no space for them to consider its destruction by the last hurricane or the next to come as evidence of any failure on their part—a weak brace, a loose nail—while the forces beyond their control were just that. It was slow progress, but it was progress, and watching them as my hands moved by rote, stroking the sides, stroking the bottom of the boiling vat, I thought of how I had lived beyond the bridge. I mean, all of my life.
George Andrews. A smattering of applause as my name was called in the elementary school assembly—him? Yes, George Andrews with his government-issued shoes and ill-fitting shirt, the kid nobody wanted, as he came up the aisle, marching proudly to the beating of his own heart thundering long after all had stopped clapping, because that somber, reed-thin woman sitting in the audience had taught him that it was the only music worth marching to. And a faulty heart at that. A dozen missteps and countless mistakes, but I could never say that it was from a lack of trying. There were times when I tried too hard, pushing myself with the knowledge that I was all I had. And now you were all I had, and with you needing me, I had to hold on to what was real.
That paddle stayed in my hands all night, and by dawn my fingers and arms were so numb I couldn’t feel them. But there were ten more feet added on to the bridge—that was real. And the sun coming up to bring in the outlines of the other shore—that was also real. When the others had left for home, I sat down and rested my head on my knees, waiting for the day shift to start up again. Just a few more hours with them, I told myself, and then I’d go home as well. I must have dozed off; I never heard the others beginning to work or Dr. Buzzard sitting down beside me. He uncapped a Thermos and poured me a cupful of something that smelled rich and sweet.
“Don’t worry, ain’t nothing in it but the ginger toddy.”
He kept his head turned toward the sunrise as I sipped at the hot liquid, feeling it bring some measure of life back into my body. Another cupful calmed the gnawing in my stomach. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
“I used to sell that stuff,” he said, “when I was dancing on the vaudeville circuit. Passed it off as a ‘miracle elixir’—ya know, to help men with their problems in bed. A tablespoon of grated ginger and some honey with a splash of whiskey. And folks believed it, too, came back for more, telling me how much good it had done ’em.” He picked at a loose thread on a knee patch of his overalls before finally turning his head toward me to continue. “Ya see, I’ve always been an old fraud.”
He was so close I could see the age in the yellowing roots of his grizzled beard, the knotted veins in his neck surrounded by bones—black-cat bones, he’d told me once—that were dry and splintered. “Yeah, out about every ten, nine would come back and say it done ’em good. And that nine would spread the news about me, which brought in nine more. So I never thought about that other one—the single one who it ain’t worked for—till I got olde
r. Really, not till I talked to you yesterday.”
I gave him back his Thermos and started to get up. Whatever this man was leading up to, I didn’t need to hear it. If it wouldn’t help me to keep standing over that vat of tar, what good would it do?
“Ya see, I had given him something that he just couldn’t believe in—and him disbelieving, whether I’d offered him a miracle or not, guaranteed it to fail.”
“Look, Dr. Buzzard, now, I’ve heard you out again, but I’ve got work to do. And if you’re worried about us, you can stop. We’re going to be fine because I believe in myself.”
“That’s where folks start, boy—not where they finish up. Yes, I said boy. ’Cause a man would have grown enough to know that really believing in himself means that he ain’t gotta be afraid to admit there’s some things he just can’t do alone. Ain’t nobody asking you to believe in what Ruby done to Cocoa—but can you, at least, believe that you ain’t the only one who’d give their life to help her? Can you believe that, George?”
I didn’t say anything as I stood there, staring down at him. I had to press my fists into the pockets of those overalls to keep my arms from trembling, I was so tired.
“’Cause if you can bring yourself to believe just that little bit, the walk you’ll take to the other place won’t be near as long as the walk back over to that vat of tar.”
He was wrong. It was a long walk as I stumbled through the west woods, trying to step over fallen trees and around huge sections of gouged earth. The stagnant water in those gullies held thousands of mosquito larvae that were buzzing into life as the rising sun warmed them. Another hot and miserable day. My eyes were grainy, and I wasn’t sure if I was moving in the right direction. Nothing looked familiar—occasional glimpses of The Sound appearing blood red under the sunrise, the magnolias and jasmines twisted and stripped clean of their flowers—until I came to the pine stump that was just around the bend from where I knew I would find the old house with a large garden.
She sits out on the verandah all night, her hands never ceasing the oiling and rubbing of John-Paul’s walking cane and Bascombe Wade’s ledger. Miranda has a whole can of linseed oil out in the shed, but she’s using a concoction she made up herself that evening: a handful of poplar buds steeped in heated alcohol. What she’s got is a bit too sticky for her liking, but it’s gonna have to do. Balm of Gilead is best when it’s left to sit for a few weeks before being strained down into an ointment. A smidgen of balm, then the chamois cloth flat against her open palm as she presses and strokes her hand along the length of the cane resting on her lap. With working careful, a patch at a time, she gets the hickory of that walking cane gleaming under the light from the nearly full moon. The leather covering on the ledger is too full of scars and scratches to shine proper, but it gets softened and smoothed under the stroking of Miranda’s hand.
When she finishes with one, she places it on the verandah railing directly under the moonlight and takes the other up to start all over again. The light moves and she moves, never allowing the book or cane to stay in the shadows. All night she strokes, and follows the path of the moon. She stops at the first breaking of dawn when her rooster stands near the garden fence and begins to crow. Her hands waxy and slick from the balm of Gilead, Miranda leans back in the rocker with them folded on her lap.
She’s still sitting that way when George comes through the gate. He’s limping a bit, the hem of them tar-streaked overalls dragging in the mud. Her heart goes out to him, so young and so confused about why he’s there. She can feel it in the pit of her stomach—he came but he don’t believe. And it was the end of the road for them all, so there ain’t a thing she can do but go on and give him the answers to questions he won’t know how to ask, and hope he understands enough to trust her. She waits for him to get up to the foot of the verandah but she don’t wait for him to open his mouth.
“I want you to hear me out. Baby Girl is the closest thing I have to calling a child my own. And I did say Baby Girl, ’cause she’s the last of the womenfolk come into the Days that I will live to see. There ain’t a mama who coulda felt more pain or pride for her when she was coming up—do you understand? But it’s more than my blood flows in her and more hands that can lay claim to her than these.”
When she holds ’em out to him they’re trembling, the fingers gnarled and coated with flecks of balm.
“I can do more things with these hands than most folks dream of—no less believe—but this time they ain’t no good alone. I had to stay in this place and reach back to the beginning for us to find the chains to pull her out of this here trouble. Now, I got all that in this hand but it ain’t gonna be complete unless I can reach out with the other hand and take yours. You see, she done bound more than her flesh up with you. And since she’s suffering from something more than the flesh, I can’t do a thing without you.”
He’s been leaning forward and listening to her careful with a frown on his brow that deepens when she finishes. “I still don’t see what you want me to do.”
“’Cause I ain’t told you yet. First, I was hoping for you to understand that much.”
“Well, you’re talking in a lot of metaphors. But what it boils down to is that I can be of some use to you, and I came here for that. So, please, what is it, Miss Miranda?”
It’s only in her eyes that Miranda is slowly shaking her head. Metaphors. Like what they used in poetry and stuff. The stuff folks dreamed up when they was making a fantasy, while what she was talking about was real. As real as them young hands in front of her.
“Come here, George,” she says. And as he mounts the steps she takes up the ledger and the walking cane. She puts them in his hands and folds hers over his. She presses them for a moment: strong and firm. Yes, these are the hands that could do it, but would he trust her enough to follow?
“There are two ways anybody can go when they come to certain roads in life—ain’t about a right way or a wrong way—just two ways. And here we getting down to my way or yours. Now, I got a way for us to help Baby Girl. And I’m hoping it’s the one you’ll use.”
She curls her fingers tighter around his that’s holding the ledger and walking cane. “Mine ain’t gonna be too hard—really. Back at my coop, there’s an old red hen that’s setting her last batch of eggs. You can’t mistake her ’cause she’s the biggest one in there and the tips of her feathers is almost blood red. She’s crammed her nest into the northwest corner of the coop. You gotta take this book and cane in there with you, search good in the back of her nest, and come straight back here with whatever you find.”
Miranda feels his body go rigid, but she won’t let him pull back and she rushes to get through. “Now, I’m warning you, she’s gonna be evil so watch out for your eyes. But, please, bring me straight back whatever you find—and then we can all rest. You look like you could use a lot of it, son.”
When he finally snatches his hands from hers, the ledger and cane fall into her lap. It’s hard to read what’s on his face—he done turned it to stone.
“I can’t believe you’re saying this—this is your way?”
“It’s the only one I got.”
“Then I’ll find my own.”
“I pray to God you don’t.”
“And I came to you for help—”
“I’m giving it to you.”
“All that walking for this—this mumbo-jumbo?”
“I spoke plain and I spoke slow. I’ll even repeat it if you want. There’s an old red hen that’s setting her last batch of eggs—”
“Stop it!”
He looks like he wants to strike Miranda and she is willing to take the blows if it would do any good—let him beat her to a pulp if it would get him to that hen house and back to her with those very hands.
“You’re a crazy old woman!”
“Yes, I’m a crazy old woman.”
“And I was a fool to come here!”
“Yes, you were a fool to come here.”
“There’s nothin
g you can give her!”
“There’s nothing I can give her.”
The stone don’t crack, but his eyes are made of softer material and his voice becomes softer still as he makes his way back down those steps.
“It’s cruel of you to play these games, when it’s your own niece that’s sick.”
“No,” Miranda says, “my niece is dying.”
She watches him leave, barely able to keep himself from stumbling off the brick walkway running through her garden, his feet dragging through the broken honeysuckle vines and bruised roses. He never looks back as he passes through the wooden gate, and she never stops caressing the smoothed surface of that ledger and cane. George disappears around the bend as her rooster keeps crowing toward the rising sun.
I hated that old woman. And I hated myself even more for the weakness that had taken me into those back woods. A total waste—of time and energy, both of which I had so little. I could have been at the house sleeping, and I needed to sleep badly. I was getting lightheaded, with thousands of pinpoints burning throughout my body. Each time I had to climb over a fallen tree, I fought the urge to just curl up among its branches and sink into unconsciousness. The heat didn’t help, either. My back and shirt front were soaked when I finally made it to the main road. That yellow bungalow looked like an oasis. Just a few hours of rest and then I could get back to the bridge.
Mama Day Page 35
