by Janet Walker
* * *
Mrs. Gentry left at eight p.m. Tracy and Grace relaxed in the den, where they played Scrabble and listened to music, including Sade. During the word game, they laughed often and enjoyed slices of the strawberry shortcake Mrs. Gentry had left for them.
“Fina? What’s that mean, Tracy?”
“It’s not fee-nah. It’s fin-na.”
“As in what?”
“As in I’m finna get a point and you just tryna find something wrong with my word!”
They collapsed in laughter.
“That’s not a word, Tracy, and you know it!”
“Yeah, it is!”
“No, it’s not! Maybe in Ariel Place, but not here!”
“Oh, now you tryna crack on my neighborhood!”
They laughed again.
After Scrabble, they sat back on the couch and relaxed. Grace found the remote and pressed a new CD selection.
“I want you to hear this.”
Tracy waited. Soon the voice of a woman came over the room’s sound system. Grace turned up the volume and although Tracy found the singer’s voice pleasant, it was unfamiliar. The music was also not her favorite kind—it was old music, the kind Aunt Madge listened to sometimes. “Who is that?” Tracy asked, not impressed.
“Sarah Vaughan.”
“Who is that?” the youth asked, frowning.
“You’ve never heard of Sarah Vaughan?”
“Nope,” said the girl.
Grace smiled, amused, and then listened, so Tracy did, too. From the stereo came a smooth, throaty contralto accompanied by a soaring, orchestrated, flowing melody.
“She was a balladeer, a pop vocalist, jazz singer—all of that. Music scholars agree she had one of the most exquisite voices of the twentieth century. Her career started in the forties and continued until she died in April of this year.”
“Oh.”
“At her best,” the woman concluded, “which I think was in the 1950s, her voice is perfect. I admire that—perfection. And hers is a rare example of someone whose singing voice might have been helped, and not harmed, by cigarette smoking. As she aged, it gained a pleasant, dark texture that smoking might have caused. But smoking might also have killed her. She died from cancer.”
Grace gravely considered this last fact before closing her eyes to absorb the singing, a smile playing upon her lips. But Tracy couldn’t concentrate on the song—she was still not over the shock of being there. With Miz Grace, or this stranger who looked like Miz Grace. Tracy’s head teemed with scenes of the day, of driving around and eating in restaurants and shopping at the mall as if they were mother and daughter. Of laughing together and teasing each other in public as if they were sisters. And so this display of couch theatrics on Miz Grace’s part only added to Tracy’s disbelief. Was this a dream? Was she really spending another night with Miz Grace and were they really eating cake and hanging out like best friends? Tracy took in and released a deep breath. The reality of everything was suddenly overwhelming and so her curiosity became a bubble that swelled until it popped out of her mouth in an unexpected question.
“How come you don’t have any children, Miz Grace?”
The woman’s eyes opened. Her smile of contentment became a different smile, a subtle and guarded one. “A better question,” she replied, “is why aren’t you living with your mother?”
Tracy’s expression darkened. She lowered her gaze and mumbled, “’Cause my mama crazy. She drink and…use drugs and…like men a lot.”
Grace grew sober. “Have any of them tried to do anything to you?”
The girl averted her eyes. “No.”
Grace studied the girl. “Really?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Grace continued the study. “Good,” she finally said. “But I want you to promise me that if any of your mother’s boyfriends or any man does something to you that makes you feel uncomfortable, you’ll come to me. Or to your aunt. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it, Tracy. You don’t ever have to feel afraid of anything. Because you’ve got me.”
Grace watched for the effect of her words on the teen. They were similar to words Tip had said to her when she was a frightened little girl full of secrets. You don’t have to be afraid, my dear, because I’m here. You’ve got me. The assurance had worked on Grace, and now she hoped it was doing the same to Tracy Sullivan.
The teen lowered her head and smiled gently, as one touched. “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m okay.”
“Good,” Grace finally said. “Good.”
Another Sarah Vaughan song began to play, a happy, lilting tune. Grace reverted to playfulness and grabbed Tracy by the hand.
“Come on. You dance?”
Tracy resisted, frightened by the prospect. “No!” she answered. Mama always told her she danced like a chicken, and she did not want to demonstrate this inability for Miz Grace.
“Sure, you do! Anyone who plays basketball as gracefully as you do—” With a strong tug she pulled the girl to her feet.
“No! I don’t!”
Warmth spread over Tracy’s face—embarrassment, pleasure. This was so how having a mother was supposed to be! She felt Miz Grace’s hand slip around her waist and her cheeks burned. They were standing so close a basketball would not fit between them. Tracy bowed her head bashfully. Her hand shot into the air, captured and lifted by Miz Grace’s hand. Tracy recognized the stance: They were about to waltz like people did on TV.
The words to the song, delivered by Vaughan’s voice, were a textural fusion of talc and crystal.
’S wonderful,
’s marvelous
you should care
for me.
Again, Tracy could not believe this was the same Miz Grace she knew at school. The same lady who scared everybody, giving orders like a sergeant and hardly smiling and never laughing. The same woman who was so admired her clothing generated money for students. The same one who drove the Jag and sported brand names and burned a hole in your heart whenever she trained her intense pretty stare on you in the sports complex. And now, this same Miz Grace was standing before her, holding her by the waist and by the hand, forcing her to step to some jaunty old music.
’S awful nice,
’s paradise.
’S what I love
to see.
Grace smiled happily. Tracy smiled uncertainly.
“Step with me. One… two. One… two. See? You can do this.”
You’ve made my life
so glamorous.
You can’t blame me
for feeling amorous.
“Tip, my mother, would give me dance lessons. I had to do stuff like this all the time. It helped me, though, really. When I needed to run or play ball? It improved my coordination, my rhythm.”
Tracy nodded in response but was concentrating more on following the progression of Grace’s feet. The woman was stepping forward first with one foot, then with the other, then doing the same in reverse. “You’re doing great! See? You can dance,” the woman said, and at one point she released Tracy’s waist and spun the girl with one hand. They laughed together, and the song came to an end.
Oh, it’s wonderful,
’s marvelous
that you should care
for me!
