by Cheryl Reid
I returned to the room of dancing light. I would keep vigil over her. My chest felt hollow, like her empty birdcage in the corner of the room. I touched her things. The silver mirror, the bone-handled brush and tortoiseshell comb. I watched her still body as I neared her closet, wanting her to turn and invite me into bed. Her ten silver bangle bracelets were strewn carelessly over the dresser. One of them had been engraved with my name and birthday. I found it and ran my fingers over her name and mine—Vega. I placed the bracelet on my wrist.
I lay down beneath the window closest to her bed and dozed on and off, waking to what seemed bright bursts of light but were only the small flames of the oil lamps. Deep in the night, the lights seemed strangely peaceful and soothing, and I pretended that Mama slept soundly and that when morning came, she would rise and all would be hopeful. I dozed once more, but jolted awake to the grim reminder that she was not asleep but gone forever, like the forever and ever, amen of the Lord’s Prayer.
I opened the closet door and breathed in the familiar scent of Mama. I touched the fabrics of her dresses and made myself remember the occasions that she had worn each one. The fine silks for church, made from fabric Papa sold in his store. The one the color of summer grass was my favorite. The plain cotton dresses for everyday and the dark wool skirts for winter. In my hand I cradled her black dress shoe, with its pointed toe and leather-covered buttons and curved heel. With the soft leather next to my cheek, I breathed in the clean smell of talcum powder left behind from her foot. I feared I would soon forget the details of her—her clothes, her hair, the way she smelled of lemon verbena after a bath. So I pulled her dresses, one by one, from their hangers, and made a nest of them on the floor of her closet to sleep the next few hours wrapped in her scent.
The Mail
After a short and fitful sleep, I woke to the sounds of Lila cooking in my kitchen. Sophie did not stir. Lila clattered pots and pans. Grease popped and the smell of bacon filled the house, making me hungry. Sophie inched closer as if she sensed I was about to leave. There was a ribbon of sweat where she touched me. I slid away from her and sat at the edge of the bed. I listened to the house shift and creak as Lila moved around the kitchen.
The sky was still dark, but light was coming soon enough. This was the time I usually woke, took out my bowls, the salt and the flour from the pantry, and began baking the day’s loaves and flatbreads. That part was over.
Sophie scooted closer. I touched her curls. Sleep and the bad taste of whiskey lingered in my mouth. I wiped the film from my lips. Memories of my mother’s last night worried me. Marina would need me today.
I picked up the black dress, caked with dried blood, and tossed it into my closet. I took the housecoat from its peg. The cotton felt cool on my skin. I snapped the gold watch Elias gave me for our twentieth anniversary onto my arm. It was after six when I left Sophie curled and sleeping in my bed.
The smell of incense lingered in the hall from Elias’s room. I shut his door. In the bathroom I undid the bloodied bandage on my hand. Cold water stung the angry red cut, but the sharp pain was useful to prepare me for what was to come. From the medicine cabinet, I took two aspirin and put the bitter pills on my tongue. I drank from the tap and swallowed. I wrapped my hand in fresh gauze and tried not to look in the mirror at my frizzed hair and the circles under my eyes, dark as night. I had never looked so tired and old.
Downstairs in my kitchen, Lila stood at the sink smoking a cigarette and sipping a cup of black coffee. The bacon cooled on a plate. Lila held the cigarettes in my direction.
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
She poured steaming coffee from my percolator. “Did you rest?”
The giant coffee urn sat on the dining-room table. Piled around it, the cups, the plates, the neatly pressed linens. My house was soon to hold his coffin and then the house would fill with people.
I held the cup close to my face and breathed in the warm steam. “Sophie crawled in bed with me last night.”
I wanted to tell her what she meant to Sophie. Take nothing for granted, I wanted to say. Do better than me.
Lila turned and looked out the window to the pale-gray morning. “Your garden has gone wild overnight.”
It may not be mine anymore, I wanted to say. Weeds had sprouted. I had not tended it in three days. “It can go to the birds,” I said. I was worried about my son and the postman. “Orlando Washington is gone,” I said.
She winced and took a last drag off her cigarette.
“I’ll be fine, but he won’t.” The coffee was warm and gritty, better than the whiskey the day before.
“You are thickheaded.” She ran water over her cigarette butt. “He is nothing to you.” If she’d had a horse whip in her hands, she would have cracked it to get me in line.
“Mama used to tell me a story about a Gypsy woman who was run out of her village in the old country.” I wound the cuckoo clock over the sink. “A mob chased her out because she frightened my mother and her sisters. Do you think that’s what will happen to me?”
“It damn well might if you keep on.” Her eyes scoured my face.
“If Mr. Washington comes back—”
She cut me off. “He’s gone. Gus says he’s gone.”
“I don’t want to burden Eli with this.”
“He’ll be all right.” She shook her head. “He’s a grown man and he has the Church on his side. They can protect him.”
I wanted to believe she was right, but I didn’t trust anything.
“You’ve got nothing to protect you.” She scowled. Sophie’s feet padded across the floor above us. “You might have been better off with Elias alive.” As Sophie’s steps sounded down the stairs, Lila’s expression softened.
“Mama,” she said. The quiet of Lila’s day was over. I was envious for such a distraction.
“Look who’s here,” Lila said. “My sunshine, my only sunshine,” she sang softly.
Sophie’s leotard twisted around her waist and the skin of her chest was exposed. She had wrestled it down to go to the bathroom. Lila helped her straighten it.
“She slept so sound,” I said.
The pale-gray sky brightened. With Sophie hanging on her leg, Lila turned up the gas on the stove. The bacon grease popped, and she cracked three eggs into the pan. She took the biscuits out of the oven and fixed three plates of food. We sat and ate in silence.
When I finished, I reached for the canvas bag of money atop the refrigerator and went outside to my car. The mockingbird perched on a low limb, his gray-and-white-striped tail flicked up. He called out to me, flew down to the grass, and unfolded his wings. “You’ll have to wait a minute, old man,” I said. The wet grass was cool on my feet, but I could taste the heat surfacing in the air. The noise of cicadas thrummed like ocean waves—gaining, crashing, rolling back.
The pebbles of the drive cut into the soles of my feet. I opened the trunk of the car and shifted the grocery bags of money. I placed my father’s money beside them and covered it all with a blanket. The money would not be safe inside the house, not with all the people coming and going.
Inside the front door, I called out to Sophie. “You want to feed the bird?”
“Oh, yes,” she said and came running down the hall. Her face was bright. She smiled and her baby teeth showed. Soon she’d lose them and the big, awkward adult teeth would come in. I wondered if I would be here to see it.
I got the raisins from the cabinet and put a few handfuls in my pocket.
Outside, I gave her some, and she tossed them one at a time, high in the air, and the mockingbird flew up and down. Sophie flitted around the yard in her bare feet. The bird pecked at the ground and searched.
Lila came out with two cups of coffee in her hand. We sat on the porch steps and sipped the coffee while Sophie played. I was happy to have them with me and grateful that nothing else needed to be said.
The phone rang, and Lila patted my shoulder. “I’ll get it. You sit while you can.”
&n
bsp; I hoped it was Marina calling to say she was headed to the hospital.
A car door slammed down the street and I saw a mail truck parked in the shade a few yards from my drive. It was not Orlando Washington; he did not have a mail truck. A man stepped from the shade of the tree. He was white. He clipped a ring of keys to his belt as he approached.
I walked barefoot across the dewy grass and gathered the collar of my housecoat together.
“Sophie,” I said. “Go in and get your mama.”
“But why?” she asked. She continued to run loops around the tree.
“Go, now, I said.” I spoke sharply. I wanted her out of earshot in case the man said something she should not hear, but I knew by the look on her face that I had offended her with my tone.
She ran inside.
The postman’s shoes crunched the gravel drive. “Ma’am,” he said as he approached. His face was clean-shaven and fresh, his hair hidden beneath his postman’s cap. He extended a handful of mail, probably sympathy and prayer cards.
“Good morning,” I said. With my bandaged hand, I took the envelopes—at least ten. “Mail’s early today.”
“First on the route today,” he said. “Catching up from the snag we hit yesterday.” His eyes scanned my face, and he scowled at what he saw. I felt exposed and gripped the collar of my housecoat. This was why appearances mattered, why money made up for strangeness. I needed my nice clothes, my makeup and jewelry.
“What happened yesterday?” I asked, as if I did not know.
“Your friend left town.” He smirked. “He left, like we knew he would. Can’t count on an unreliable race.” The hateful look on his face made it clear that all of Riverton was against Mr. Washington, not just Elias, not just Ivie. They were against me too.
The screen door slapped shut. Lila stood on the top step of the porch with Sophie in her arms.
His eyes left me and rested on Lila. “Ma’am.” He tipped his cap in her direction.
He stared too long, and I turned to see what captured his attention. The child’s dark, bare legs hung beside Lila’s waist, and the head of brown curls rested on her mother’s shoulder. The contrast of Lila’s fair skin against Sophie’s rich olive color struck me as peculiar, out of place, even though they were my people. The mailman’s cold gray eyes returned to me.
My stomach churned. I had no nerve to ask more questions, but he offered the information anyway.
“His house caught on fire.” He stepped away from me. “Strangest thing. Your son can tell you all about it.”
The air felt trapped in my chest. “Eli?”
“What’s that, Anna?” Lila said. “What about Eli?”
“He said Eli can tell me about Washington’s house catching on fire,” I said.
“Well, of course he can. Eli can tell a lot of people about a lot of things.” Lila’s voice was assertive, like it was when she commanded her horses in the ring. “He’s a smart young man. Recognizes people. Remembers names.”
I turned to look at her. She was not afraid to stand up to anyone. She could stare down a thousand-pound charging horse. She squinted and shaded her eyes against the glare of the morning sun and white-gray clouds. I moved toward her and the house. She walked out into the yard and put Sophie down beside me. Sophie grabbed my legs. I had been forgiven for snapping at her.
The postman said, “Never know where lightning will strike.” His eyes narrowed and the smirk disappeared from his lips, leaving a hard, thin line. “Never know when you might be next.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lila asked. She stood straight, unafraid of his threats.
“Oh, you know, every day is a blessing.” He took a step back toward the road. “We never know when our time comes.”
“That is true.” Lila took deliberate steps close to him. “Something to think about.”
He seemed startled by her proximity. She stood tall. She was not timid like most women.
“I know you,” Lila said to the postman. “Robert, right? Your mama and daddy are down the road from mine.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I know you too.”
They sized each other up. The mockingbird mimicked a crow cawing nearby.
He said, “Let’s just say, that old boy won’t bother you no more.” The ever-present cicadas sent vibrations through the air.
“Well, that’s good news,” Lila called out. “Now everyone can go on with their own business.” I could not see her face, but she sounded friendly, as if she were smiling. She disguised her tone as light, gay, but he had to know she meant for him to leave me alone.
The postman grinned and heaved his bag to his other shoulder. The keys on his belt jangled as he walked away. “Y’all have a good day, now.”
“You too,” Lila called back. She turned and faced me, her back to the street. “Good God,” she said. “That was Gus calling. Eli is with him. Eli drove that colored man to the seminary and then came back to get something for him and saw a bunch of men lighting his house on fire.” She spoke low so her voice would not carry. “You are going to need protection from town, and Eli’s going to need protection from Marina. She’s bound to skin you both alive.” She looked down at Sophie, still sleepy and leaning against my legs. “Stay here with Aunt Annie and I’ll get your tap shoes.”
She climbed the porch stairs. The outline of the pistol lay beneath her clothes in the small of her back.
The mailman crossed Poplar Street to Verna’s porch. Behind her house, in the tall oak trees, a streak of blue and white, a blue jay, flew up and disappeared into the green. Her front door opened and I glimpsed the bright pink of Verna’s dress. The postman cackled and she peeked around his shoulder—a half grin, a flash of angry teeth.
Lila emerged with the ribbon ties of Sophie’s tap shoes and tutu in her hand. The shoes swung and clapped together with her every step.
Vibrations from the cicadas crawled over my skin. “He said you never know where lightning strikes.” I looked to Lila for reassurance. “What do you think he meant?”
“Maybe Washington will stay gone,” she said. She put a hand on my shoulder. “One less thing for you to worry about.”
“He’s a person,” I said. “Not a thing.”
“You know what I mean.”
I looked into her blue eyes. “Do you think Eli is safe? Do you think they’ll come here?”
“Who’s coming here?” Sophie’s voice was husky with sleep. She leaned on me and rested one bare foot on top of the other.
“Nobody, honey.” Lila went to the truck and put the gun under the seat. She came back and lifted Sophie. The girl’s face nestled into Lila’s neck. “Eli is safe. He’s a grown man. He’s smarter than all of us put together.”
“That poor man,” I said. All Mr. Washington had worked for was finished in one night. I knew him only as Thea’s son. Did he have anyone else? Of course he did, he must have friends from school, from his time in the army, from New York. I had been in the house they burned, when his mother was still living in it, before she died. Papa had gone to visit her, and she had asked for me, so I went. She said, “That day at your daddy’s, after your husband had hit you, why wouldn’t you let me help you?” I had no good answer for her. She peppered our talk with her disappointment in me, and I accepted it, because I deserved it.
“Anna.” Lila’s voice was stern, full of warning. She put her hand on my shoulder and pressed. “What happened to him was bound to happen with or without you.” She kissed my cheek. “He knew what he was getting into.”
I touched Sophie’s warm arm. I had taken a chance too, but I did not want it to cost me everything.
“We’ll be back this afternoon,” Lila said. “Gus will be here for the wake and the Rosary tonight.” She walked to her truck and placed Sophie on the passenger side and rolled down the window. “If Nelly gives you any trouble, you come to me. You get in your car and drive.”
“I’ll be okay.” It sounded brave, but the old woman’s name sent waves throug
h my stomach. I wanted to see my son’s face, touch him, make sure no harm had come to him. “Where did you say Eli is? With Gus?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s with Gus.” Lila shut Sophie’s door and walked around to the driver’s side. Her door shut, and Sophie’s head fell out of view as she lay across the seat. The engine rumbled. “I left the pint under your sink, in case you need it,” Lila said out the window. “We’ll be back.”
I called out, “I will be fine.” But I had to admit, I wanted Lila with me. She backed out slowly and the pea gravel popped. She turned off Poplar Street, and my stomach was queasy.
The mockingbird sang his normal call, two long trills and one short. I laid the mail on the porch step and tossed the rest of the raisins from my pocket. The bird flew down, impishly pecking the ground and flaunting the white and gray bands of his feathers.
The yard was littered with fallen branches from the heavy rain. I moved some to make a path. Marina’s voice chimed in my head, telling me to go inside and change, not to be out in the front yard in my housecoat and bare feet. Get a man for this work, she would say in a motherly tone, authoritative, guiding me not to take a wrong turn. But I did not want to be inside where he had died.
A trickle of warm blood seeped from the bandage. If not for Marina, I would have left then and there—Papa, the store, the house, Riverton. I would have gotten in my car and driven away. Eli would be loyal, but if I left her to bury her father alone, she would never forgive me. A large branch blocked the path I’d been clearing and I rolled it away. It was heavy, but not so cumbersome as Elias’s body.
Louise
Louise’s black Buick pulled in the drive. I was happy to see she was alone, without her sister Nelly. She found me sitting on the porch steps with a fallen branch in my hands. The faint cuckoo sang ten times from inside the house. Louise’s short, thick body stooped to lift a stack of cake pans from her floorboard. I went to help her, but she shook her head, no, and mimed a kiss to me. I cleared branches from her path so she would not trip.
