Third Girl from the Left

by Martha Southgate

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “Well, I guess that’d be all right. Though I don’t know why you’d want to take pictures of me.”

  “It’s not regular pictures, Grandma. It’s movies. It’s a movie camera. I saved up and went to graduate school to learn how to make movies.” I didn’t say “films” as we always did at NYU. Somehow, I knew that to her they were ever and always movies.

  “You know how to make movies?” she said. Her voice rose with real excitement.

  “Yes, ma’am. I really like doing it.”

  “Well, I never. A black girl making movies. I never thought I’d see such a thing. I love the pictures. Your mama ever tell you that? We used to go every Saturday, rain or shine, no matter what. We saw everything. You ask her.” She stopped again briefly. “Whenever we wasn’t fighting, we was at the pictures. We saw everything. Ask her about that Carmen Jones.” A shadow crossed her face and she leaned back against the pillow. “I don’t know why you’d want to make a movie about an old woman like me. But you sure can. Can I ask you one thing, though?”

  “Sure, Grandma, anything.”

  “Show me how the camera works before you start. That’s something I always did wonder about.”

  “Sure, Grandma. I can go get it right now.”

  “You do that, baby.”

  I was back in a minute. I helped her sit up a little straighter in the bed and took the camera carefully out of its case. I went over all the parts, showed her the DV cassette (“You mean you can put a whole movie on that little tiny thing? Well, I’ll be”), let her look at the monitor and frame up some shots of the room. She laughed girlishly throughout the demonstration. Then she carefully gave the camera back to me. I turned it on without comment. “Tamara, I really appreciate you taking the time to show me all that. I always loved learning stuff like that, but I never got much chance. It was only one person showed me that kind of thing.”

  “Who was that?”

  She closed her eyes. Her hands worked the edge of the bedspread. “Man named William Henderson.” She sighed and her face changed utterly as her eyes opened. “He was the projectionist down to the Dreamland Theatre when your mama was a girl. He . . . he was something else. Showed me all about movie projectors, how to do. And about Jacob Lawrence. You know who he is?

  “No, ma’am.”

  “He was just about the finest colored artist you’d ever want to see. Painter. You look him up. And I got a book, a book about him. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

  “So this William, he was a friend?”

  She was quiet a long time before she answered. “Yes. He was about the best friend I ever had. You know, in this life, it’s some people you meet, and some you recognize. With him and me, it was like that. Seem like we always knew each other.”

  My chest was getting tight, but I didn’t stop shooting. She turned her head to the side. “That’s enough for now, baby, I need to rest. You go on. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I leaned over to kiss her forehead. She looked out the window, not acknowledging me.

  I left the room, glad to get out of there. I felt like crying, and it had been a mighty long time since I’d done that. I thought of the pictures of Colin’s family all over the bureau, the candles he kept before them, the look on my grandmother’s face as she held my camera, as she told me about William. I went to go ask my mother if I could take the car into town and get some more DV cassettes.

  She said she wanted to come with me. “I’m ’bout to lose my mind sitting up in this house. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Ain’t nothing happening around here,” she said. So much of our life together has been in the car. She drove, like always.

  “You gonna have to get back to work soon, Mama?”

  “To tell the truth, yeah. I had some vacation time saved up, and I’ve been there a long time so I can get another couple of weeks unpaid, but it’s kind of hard to swing it without a paycheck for long. You know.”

  “I know.”

  “How about you, baby girl? You need to get back soon?”

  Well. No time like the present. “No. I . . . Mama, I quit my job so I could come down here. I’m just gonna have to look when I get back.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to meet Grandma. And I wanted . . . I wanted to see you. So I came. I can get another job. It’s all right.”

  Mama just looked at me. “You are crazy.” Then she smiled. “Just like me. Christ. I can’t believe you quit a good job to come to Tulsa.”

  “I’m glad I did. This is interesting.”

  Mama snorted. “You think so?”

  “Grandma says I should ask you about Carmen Jones. That you two used to always go to the movies together.”

  Mama’s eyes narrowed against her cigarette smoke. “She told you that, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We used to go to the Dreamland every week. This big old theater downtown. I drove by the spot where it was when I first got here. Wanted to see if it was still there. But it’s gone. They put a Payless there. I got me some shoes instead.” She laughed a little, but her eyes were sad.

  “You never told me anything about Carmen Jones, either,” I said.

  “Nothing to tell. Mama had already seen it a million times by the time she took me. It came back through town, you know. I loved it, that’s all. Same as I love some movies now. Same as you do.” She laughed again. “I did want to wear a flower behind my ear for a while. But Mama wouldn’t let me. Just as well. I’d have looked pretty silly.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “You were just a kid.”

  “Still.” We were turning into the mall parking lot now. “Mama always was worried about how things would look. That’s why she couldn’t stand when I went off and got into pictures. Her baby taking off her clothes in a movie . . . she never understood that I had to. That was what was out there.”

  “Must have been hard for her to understand.”

  “Yeah. I guess it was.”

  “Kind of like you understanding why I quit to come down here.”

  She grinned suddenly. “Yeah. Kind of like that.”

  That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about what my grandmother had said: “Some people you meet, and some you recognize.” I thought about the way Colin sat down next to me the day we met and asked me about Imitation of Life before he even asked my name. He knew I’d know. He knew I’d care. He knew me. And I knew him too. I recognized him. I lay on my too narrow bed, tears running into my ears. Colin would understand how I felt now that I had found all these people, my family. I leaned over and rooted around in my backpack and got out my cell phone. His number was still in there. I felt stupid every time I scrolled by it. But I couldn’t get myself to delete it. I sat up and called him, my mouth as dry as sand. He answered on the third ring. “Colin?”

  “Tam? Tam, is that you?”

  “Yeah.” Why wouldn’t my voice stop shaking? “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Jesus. Where . . . how are you?”

  “I’m good. I . . . I work on Law and Order now. Well, I did.”

  “I heard that.” He paused. “Why’d you say you ‘did’?”

  “I quit.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to.” I stopped, switched the phone to my other, unsweaty hand. “I miss you.” Just came out. Didn’t even know I was gonna say it.

  “Really?” He sighed. “You said some evil-ass things to me. But I miss you too.” He sounded a little surprised. “I can’t even kind of find a girl who’s as much of a film geek as me.”

  “Well, I can find plenty of film geeks . . . , but they’re not you.”

  We fell into a brief silence. Then he spoke. “Yeah.” Big sigh. “Yeah. Why’d you call, Tam?”

  “I’m in Tulsa, with my mother and my grandmother. Who I’ve never even met before. And she’s so amazing. The whole thing is . . . I want to tell you about it. You’re the only person I know who’d understand. I’m so s
orry, Col. But I want to talk to you. You’re the one I want to talk to. Will you?”

  I could picture him shifting the phone up closer to his ear, moving his dreads out of the way. I could picture him scowling a little, thinking. “I will. I probably shouldn’t. But I will. Tell me,” he said. So I did. I sat on the edge of the pink-and-white bedspread, talking, my heart breaking open, unwilling to think of something beginning.

  32

  NOW THAT TAM WAS GROWN AND GONE AND barely talking to them, Sheila had to admit that she missed her, though she’d never thought of herself as that child’s mother. More like her much older sister or something. That goofy way she had of going around filming everything, that stupid baseball cap, her unwillingness to be a silly, overgrown girl. God only knew where she got that. And she and Angie had ridden her about it plenty. But secretly, Sheila kind of admired it. Tamara would never end up stuffed into a skimpy costume, dodging hands. She was sure she was meant to make the pictures, not be in them. God only knew where she got that either.

  As Tam grew up and she and Angie got older, Sheila couldn’t help but notice that Tam was right about one thing: men did decide everything in Hollywood and lots of other places too. And there were an awful lot of half-naked women used to sell everything, and the half-naked women (she should know, she’d been one of them) never did get paid as much as the men at the top in the suits. It was funny she’d learned all this from Tam because she’d never even meant to have a child. Angie either. And yet there they were. They’d raised this girl. The two of them. Dancing around the living room together, getting whatever jobs they could, raising a baby girl. Who’d have thought that possible?

  Just like what she’d decided to do since Angie went off to see to her mama seemed impossible. This girl, Heather, down at the office, kept telling her and telling her about this program at Los Angeles City College for people who hadn’t gone to college at the usual time. Heather reminded Sheila of Tamara: she gave that same impression that she could have what she wanted if she worked hard enough, like she deserved something good. Sheila wasn’t used to seeing a black girl who really felt like that. She sure hadn’t felt like that when she was their age. But she liked it. That’s why she went along with Heather’s coaxing and signed up for a class. They had this special program for people over fifty. She had to admit that she was over fifty to get in, but she figured she didn’t have to go telling everybody that. She just admitted it to get in to the program. She couldn’t wait to tell Angie about it, called her the morning after the first class. It was an English class; they were reading The Bluest Eye, that book Oprah had recommended awhile ago. Sheila, who hadn’t read a book since the Bunny training manual, found she absolutely could not stop reading. She finished at 4:00 in the morning, her eyes grainy with fatigue and red from crying, holding the book to her chest. Then she turned it over to look at the author photo. Then she held it to her chest again. She waited until it was late enough in the morning to call. Angie answered on the first ring. Sheila pictured her eyes half-closed against the smoke of her cigarette, the way she was probably sitting, one leg folded up underneath her, as she held the phone. She missed her.

  “Angie, girl, how you doing? How’s your mama?”

  “Sheila! I’m so glad you called. I . . . it’s been weird. You know how long it’s been since I’ve seen her.”

  “I know. How is it?”

  “It’s kind of all right. She’s too old to be picking with me so much anymore, you know?” She stopped. “And I guess I’m past needing to pick with her all the time too. It feels different. I’m glad I came, to tell the truth. I think I’da been sorry if I hadn’t. You know what happened the other day?”

  “What?”

  “I was in her room, just sitting with her, and I got bored and so I started changing the channels around, and guess what was on?”

  “Just tell the story, girl, all right?”

  “Splendor in the Grass! I ain’t seen that in years. In years. Mama sits up and I leaned right in and we were watching it, and she said, “You know, I never did see what you saw in that Warren Beatty,’ and I said, ‘Mama, look at him. Come on, he’s perfect,’ and she said, ‘You say.’ But then she said, “You always did know your own mind, girl. You something else. Like to kill me. But you something else.’ And then guess what I said.”

  “What?” Sheila cradled the phone as though she were cradling Angela.

  “‘I love you, Mama.’” She paused, her voice soft. “Been more than thirty years since I said that. And she told me she loved me too. Didn’t look at me or nothing. Just staring at the screen. But she said it. That’s something, huh?”

  “Yeah, Angie. That’s something.” A silence. Then Sheila spoke again.

  “Y’all talking OK? You and Tam. How’s she taking it?”

  “Well, she’s mad at me, you know. ‘Why didn’t you bring me to meet her sooner? Why didn’t we come to Grandpa’s funeral?’ That kind of stuff. I guess I should of. You know. I should of. Just too hard. Well. They getting along good, though. Tam’s in there almost every day filming her. You know her and that damn camera. But Mama don’t mind. It’s funny. I think she kind of like it. She ain’t perking up like we hoped, though. They thought she’d be doing better by now.”

  Sheila heard the anxiety in her lover’s voice. She said what she knew would help. “Well, you know, you don’t need to rush back. We all right for money. I got a little bit saved. If old Doc Gillespie get funny with you about not coming back right away, we’ll get by. You’d always be sorry if you didn’t do the right thing now. You know that, right?”

  “You know, Sheil, I finally do. Thank you, baby. I do need to stay. I don’t know. I still can’t talk to her, you know. But I need her to know I’m here. I need to be here.”

  “Right.” Sheila paused. “Listen. I got some news too.”

  “Aw, girl, you ain’t pregnant is you?” They both howled with laughter. “Seriously, Sheil, what’s up?”

  “I’m . . . I’m going to college.” She rushed on. “I told you about this girl Heather at my job, right? She told me about this program at LACC for people . . . well, people our age. And you get to go real cheap, and then it’s free when you’re sixty, and I just read this book, the first book I read . . . well, you know I don’t read, and it was called The Bluest Eye, and I just cried and cried. Girl, you’ve got to read it. You’ve got to read it. This might be all right. College. I never thought I’d go to college.”

  Angela was quiet for a long time. When she spoke she said, “You ain’t gonna get so smart you won’t be interested in me, will you?”

  “That could never happen. You my girl for good.”

  More silence. “You don’t think I could do that program, do you?”

  “I don’t know why not. We both been lying about our ages for the last thirty years, but I know how old you is, heifer. You old enough.”

  “I’ma think about it. Really, Sheil. Don’t want you passing me up.”

  “Never happen, Angie Bangie.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  Sheila held the phone to her ear, not speaking. Angela did the same. They sat that way for a long time.

  33

  FROM THE DAY I HAD THEM, I LOVED THEM, DIDN’T always like them. But I loved them. Angie most of all. She was the easiest one, the aching and the sweating and the pushing and then the tearing rush. She was born with a caul. Special, the old ladies always said. Gonna have second sight. I don’t know. She always saw me, right from the first. Only one of the three of them who always saw me. She saw me better than J.L. too. And I saw her. She didn’t know it. I couldn’t tell her. But I did. Only other person it was like that with was William and I couldn’t keep either of them for nothing in this world. Anybody sees you like that, anybody you see like that, it’s just too clear. It’s so clear, it’s like before the burning when my mama took me down home with her one summer and I went in a lake down there, a green one, so deep that it was up over my head.
I felt the water go all up between my legs and in me and in my ears and when I opened my eyes, I was part of the water, part of the little silver fish going by part of the bitter green cold, and I felt myself going all out into the water until I wasn’t there anymore. When you see somebody like that and they see you, it almost hurts, same as swimming in that cold, cold water did. Like you disappeared.

  This new girl, my daughter’s daughter. I recognize her. We could be like that. But I ain’t strong enough for it anymore. Got to give her what I can before I go. William taught me that. J.L. did too. Always gave what they could, both of them. Her mama ain’t learned it yet. Always running. I did what I could for her. All those Saturdays in the dark together. Wish it had been enough. I surely do. I wish they knew how much I loved them. I don’t know if I ever did tell them that so they could hear it. Some folks just can’t hear it no matter how you say it. I don’t know. Wish I could tell them about the color of the sky. The silver fish. The bitter green water. What it takes to truly see it. I wish they knew. I surely wish I could tell them.

  34

  I COULDN’T STOP SHOOTING GRANDMA. I FELT—NO, I knew—I was getting a story that I would have looked right past if it wasn’t for that time we spent breathing together, looking over my camera, enjoying a well-made machine. I had never met another woman who loved my camera as much as I did. I couldn’t believe that that woman was my grandmother.

  We talked and talked. I shot and shot. Jolene and Mama looked at us both skeptically but didn’t stop us. After that first day, she told me more about William, shy at first but then softly admitting how much she loved him, even though it had caused great pain. Even though she loved my grandfather too. She didn’t tell me whether or not they’d “had an affair.” But that part didn’t seem to matter: “Not everyone gets to love somebody like that,” she said. “I was lucky. Wish I could have held on to him somehow. I miss him still.” Then she pressed her lips together and stopped talking for a little while. She told me about Jacob Lawrence too. She showed me the old catalogue she had and told me how much she would have loved to see one of his pictures for real. “I did a little painting myself. Just tried to teach myself,” she said, her hands moving over and over the cover of the book unconsciously. “It’s hard. I don’t know . . . I did some things I liked. But it’s hard.”