Love

by Toni Morrison

  He was, she thinks, the last true friend she had. He would have mourned again if he knew what she had settled for: kept woman to a mimeographed copy of her bourgeois grandfather. And rightly, for after Dr. Rio threw her out there was no place like and no place but home. Hers. To hang on to and keep an insane viper from evicting her.

  Christine was in a car the last time she traveled this road. Up front, too, because her wide skirts—a powder-blue heap of chiffon—need room. She is wearing a movie star’s gown, strapless with rhinestones sprinkling the top. Her mother is in the backseat; her grandfather is driving the 1939 Pontiac, which irritates him because it is already 1947 and postwar cars are still unavailable to most civilians. That is what he is saying, explaining his strange mood at a time of giddy celebration: Christine’s delayed sixteenth-birthday and graduation party. She thinks the real reason he is agitated is the same reason she and her mother are jubilant. At the family-only dinner preceding the hotel party, they have managed to eliminate Heed and have had the pleasure of watching her disciplined by her husband. At last, just the three of them. No ignorant, clinging wifelet to sully this magnificent homecoming display.

  Christine, led from the car on her grandfather’s arm, makes a glamorous entrance; an Oh-so-pretty-girl-in-perfectly-beautiful gown, proof and consequence of racial uplift and proper dreams. The band plays “Happy Birthday” over the crowd’s applause, then segues into “Harbor Lights.” May beams. Christine glows. The hotel is packed with uniformed veterans, vacationing couples, and Cosey’s friends. The musicians switch to “How High the Moon,” since the future is not just bright, it is there, visible in paychecks, tangible in G.I. Bill applications, audible in the scat vocalist’s range. Just look through the wide doors beyond the open-air dance floor and see the way the stars go. Hear the waves roll; inhale the ocean’s cologne, how sweet and male it is.

  Then a flutter, a murmur of disbelief. Turning heads. Heed is in the center of the room dancing with a man in a green zoot suit. He lifts her over his head, brings her down between his legs, casts her aside, splits, and rises on angled legs in time to meet her hips shimmying toward his clenched pelvis. The band blasts. The crowd parts. Bill Cosey places his napkin on the table and stands. The guests look sideways at his approach. Zoot suit halts midstep, his pocket chain swung low. Heed’s dress looks like a red slip; the shoulder strap falls to her elbow. Bill Cosey doesn’t look at the man, shout, or pull Heed away. In fact he does not touch her. The musicians, alert to every nuance of crowd drama, grow silent, so everybody hears Bill Cosey’s dismissal and his remedy.

  The crash of the sea is sounding in Christine’s ears. She is not close enough to the shore to hear it, so this must be heightened blood pressure. Next will come the dizziness and zigzags of light before her eyes. She should rest a moment, but Heed is not resting. Heed is doing something secret with an able-bodied spider to help her.

  She should have known. She did know. Junior had no past, no history but her own. The things she didn’t know about or had never heard of would make a universe. The minute the girl sat down at the kitchen table lacing her lies with Yes, ma’ams, oozing street flavor like a yell, she knew: This girl will do anything. Yet that was precisely what was so appealing. And you had to admire any girl who survived on the street without a gun. The bold eyes, the mischievous smile. Her willingness to do any errand, tackle any difficulty, was a blessing for Christine. But more than that, Junior listened. To complaints, jokes, justifications, advice, reminiscences. Never accusing, judging—simply interested. In that silent house talking to anybody was like music. Who cared if she sneaked around with Vida’s grandson from time to time? Good for him. Fun for her. A happily sexed girl would be more likely to stay on. What Christine had forgotten was the runaway’s creed: Hang in, hang out, hang loose. Meaning friendship, yes. Loyalty, no.

  The hotel is darker than the night. No lights, but the car is parked in the driveway. No voices either. The ocean is whispering underneath the blood roaring in her ears. Maybe this is a lure. Maybe she will open the door and they will kill her, as they would not Anna Kreig, who would have had the sense not to bolt out of a house in tennis shoes and no Swiss Army knife. Stumbling along in the dark, she has seldom felt more alone. This is like the time she first learned how sudden, how profound, loneliness could be. She was five when her father died. One Saturday he gave her a baseball cap, the following Monday they carried him down the stairs on a metal stretcher. His eyes were half closed and he didn’t answer when she called him. People kept coming and coming to comfort the parent, the widow; kept whispering about how hard it was to lose a son, a husband, a friend. Nothing was said about the loss of a father. They simply patted her on the head and smiled. That was the first time she took refuge under L’s bed, and if she had her druthers, she would be there now instead of climbing toward the place that rocked her with fear and, and—what was the other thing? Oh, yes. Sorrow.

  Christine gazes into the darkness huddling the porch steps where a sunlit child is rigid with fear and the grief of abandonment. Yet her hand raised in farewell is limp. Only the bow in her hair is more languid than that hand. Beyond her gaze is another child, staring through the window of an automobile, idling, purring like a cat. The driver is the grandfather of one, the husband of the other. The passenger’s face is a blend of wild eyes, grin, and confusion. The limp hand waves while the other one’s fingers press the car window. Will it break? Will her fingers crack the glass, cutting the skin and spilling blood down the side of the door? They might, because she is pressing so hard. Her eyes are large, but she is grinning too. Does she want to go? Is she afraid to go? Neither one understands. Why can’t she go too? Why is he taking one to a honeymoon and leaving the other? They will come back, won’t they? But when? She looks so alone in that big car, but she is smiling—or trying to. There ought to be blood. There must be blood somewhere, because the sunlit child on the porch is holding herself stiff against the possibility. Only her farewell hand is soft, limp. Like the bow in her hair.

  A thorn of pain scratches Christine’s shoulder as she climbs the steps. She reaches through the dark for the doorknob. She can’t find it. The door is open.

  “You sure you want to do this? We can go back.” Junior leaves the motor running. Her exquisite nose ring flickers in the late sun. “Or tell me what to look for and you stay here.” She is nervous. Her Good Man hasn’t shown up for some time. She hopes he is here in the hotel. Everything is going fine, but it would be nicer if he were around to say so. “We can do this some other day. Anytime you want to. It’s up to you, though.”

  Heed is not listening. Neither is she looking through a car window at a ruined hotel in twilight. She is twenty-eight years old, standing at its second-floor window facing the lawn and, beyond that, sand and sea. Beneath her, women and children look like butterflies flitting in and out of the tents. The men wear white shirts, black suits. The preacher is in a rocking chair; he keeps his straw hat on. More and more she rents to churches, groups. Former guests, older now, don’t return to Cosey’s Resort often. Their children are preoccupied with boycotts, legislation, voting rights. A mother sits apart, a white handkerchief over her nursing breast. One hand holds the baby, the other slowly fanning in case a fly soars near. She could have had children too, Heed is thinking. Would have had them if she had known in 1942 what one slip into another man’s arms taught her in 1958: that she wasn’t barren at all. The man—he came to collect his brother’s body, accompany it on the train back home. Heed, remembering the pain of losing two brothers, tells him that his room, as long as he likes, will be free. And if there is anything else she can do . . . He sat on the bed and wept. She touched his shoulder rising and falling in unmanageable grief. She had never seen a sober man cry. Heed knelt down, gazing at the hand covering his eyes, and took the one on his knee. His fingers clutched hers and they held that position until he quieted.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for his handkerchief.

  “Do
n’t be. Don’t never be sorry for crying over somebody.” She was almost shouting and he looked at her as though she had said the smartest thing ever heard.

  “You need to eat something,” she said. “I’ll bring you a tray. Anything special you want?”

  He shook his head. “Anything.”

  She ran downstairs, suddenly aware of the difference between being needed and being obliged. In the kitchen she prepared a roast pork sandwich and swaddled the meat in hot sauce. Thinking of the adorable paunch pushing out his shirt, she added a bottle of beer as well as ice water to the tray. L looked askance at the food, so Heed answered her unasked question. “It’s for the dead man’s brother.”

  “Did I use too much?” she asked when he bit into the sandwich.

  He shook his head. “Perfect. How did you know?”

  Heed laughed. “Mr. Sinclair, you let me know directly if you need something. Anything at all.”

  “Knox. Please.”

  “I’m Heed,” she said, thinking, I have to get out of this room or I’ll kiss his belly.

  Knox Sinclair stayed six days, the length of time needed to arrange for, prepare, then ship the body to Indiana. Each day was more glorious than the one before. Heed helped him with telephone calls, telegraphed money, trips to Harbor for the death certificate. Tended him with the care any good hotel manager who had a guest drown would.

  That was the excuse. The reason was Jimmy Witherspoon singing “Ain’t nobody’s business if I do.” She got her wish and was able to nestle and stroke his belly nightly while her husband entertained clientele, and in the morning while he slept it off. She made Knox talk about his brother, his life, just to hear his northern accent. She was stunned to be wanted by a man her own age who found her interesting, intelligent, desirable. So this is what happy feels like.

  “Forever” is what they promised each other. He will return in six weeks and they will go away together. For six weeks Papa’s fishing “parties” were a relief, his night murmurs pathetic. She planned so carefully even L didn’t catch on: new clothes packed away in two suitcases; the till modestly but regularly raided.

  He never showed.

  She called his house in Indiana. A woman answered. Heed hung up. Called again and spoke to her.

  “Is this the Sinclair residence?”

  “Yes, it is.” A warm voice, kind.

  “May I speak to Mr. Sinclair, please?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not here. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No. Bye. I mean, thanks.”

  Another call. The warm voice answers, “This is Mrs. Sinclair. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Mrs. Cosey. From the hotel where Mr. Sinclair uh stayed.”

  “Oh. Is there a problem?”

  “No. Uh. You his wife?”

  “Whose wife?”

  “Knox. Knox Sinclair, I mean.”

  “Oh, no dear. I’m his mother.”

  “Oh. Well. Would you tell him, have him call me? Mrs. Cosey at . . .”

  He didn’t and Heed called seven times more until his mother said, “I’ve lost a son, dear. He’s lost a brother. Please don’t call here again.”

  Her badly smashed heart was quickly mended when she learned, after fifteen years of questions and pity, that she was pregnant. Sorry as she was about “not here” Knox, she would trade a father for a child any day. Gleaming in anticipation, she felt kind, generous. Unique but not isolated; important without having to prove it. When a single instance of spotting was followed by heavy clotting, she was not alarmed because her breasts continued to swell and her appetite remained ravenous. Dr. Ralph reassured her everything was fine. Her weight gain was as sharp as May’s looks, and steady, like Papa’s smiles. She had no menses for eleven months and would have had none for eleven more if L had not sat her down, slapped her—hard—then peered into her eyes, saying, “Wake up, girl. Your oven’s cold.” After months of darkness thickened by public snigger and her husband’s recoil, she did wake up and, skinny as a witch, rode into daylight on a broomstick.

  The mother finishes nursing and rocks the baby on her shoulder. Back and forth. Back and forth. The church folk, drained of color by a rising moon, leave the lawn in small groups. Overfed. Calling out happy goodbyes.

  Her baby was a son, she was sure, and had he been born she wouldn’t need to sneak off, driven by an untethered teenager to a collapsing hotel in order to secure her place.

  Taking out her key, Heed notices the broken pane in the door.

  “Somebody’s busted in here.”

  “Could be,” says Junior. She opens the door.

  Heed follows and waits while Junior rummages in her shopping bag of supplies: lightbulbs, scissors, pen, flashlight. It won’t be dark for at least an hour, so they easily find their way to the third floor and the chain hanging from the attic hatch. There the flashlight is needed while Junior searches the ceiling for the fixture.

  Standing on a crate, she screws in a bulb and pulls the string.

  Heed is shocked. The attic’s layout, indelible in her memory for decades, is blasted. Boxes are everywhere, in disarray, open, smashed, upside down. Bedsprings angled dangerously against broken chairs, rakes, carpet samples, stewing pots. Disoriented, Heed twirls, saying, “I told you somebody busted in here. Trying to steal from me.”

  “Kids maybe,” says Junior. “Fooling around.”

  “How you know? Anything could be missing. Look at this mess. This is going to take all night.” Heed stares at a rusty electric fan. Her nerves are strung.

  “What are we looking for?” Junior speaks softly, trying to soothe her, thinking, We must have scared off the birds. Not a single one twittered.

  “Rinso,” Heed snaps. “A big old box with R-I-N-S-O on it. It’s here somewhere.”

  “Well,” says Junior, “let’s get started.”

  “I can’t get around this mess.”

  “Wait here.” Junior drags and hauls until a path, front to back, is cleared. Over cracked and slanting floorboards she tosses a yard of flowered carpet and rights a carton of men’s shoes. Cobwebs are not a problem.

  While they search, Junior smells baking bread, something with cinnamon. “You smell something?” she asks.

  Heed sniffs. “Smells like L,” she says.

  “Hell can’t smell that good,” answers Junior.

  Heed lets it go.

  “There! Look!” Junior points. “It’s behind you. Up there.”

  Heed turns to look. osniR. “That don’t say Rinso.”

  “It’s upside down.” Junior laughs.

  Heed is embarrassed. “Must be losing my sight,” she says. Suddenly Junior is annoying. What’s that look? Mocking? Disrespectful? “Over here,” she directs, pointing to where she wants Junior to place the carton.

  Finally situated, cartons for seats, chair for desk, Heed thumbs through a bundle of menus. Most have only the month and day, but several show the year: 1964. She is about to instruct Junior what to write in the spaces when she notices the ballpoint pen in Junior’s fingers.

  “What’s that? I said a fountain pen. He wouldn’t use that. He wouldn’t use nothing but real ink. Oh Lord, you messing this whole thing up. I told you! Didn’t I tell you?”

  Junior lowers her eyes, thinking what the fuck is the matter with her who does she think she is I’m helping her steal or trick or lie and she talks to me like a warden? Saying,

  “In 1964 he might have.”

  “No he wouldn’t. You don’t know what you talking about.”

  “Well, a ballpoint proves it’s more recent, doesn’t it? A later version,” idiot.

  “You think?”

  “Sure,” you ignorant bitch.

  “Maybe you right. Okay. Here’s what you say.” Heed closes her eyes and dictates. “I leave all my wordly good to my dear wife Heed the Night . . .”

  Junior looks up but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear why the Good Man stopped liking her—if he ever did. “Wordly good.” Is he listening? Is
he laughing? Is he here? She can’t tell. The cinnamon bread is not him.

  “. . . who have stood by me faithful all these years. In case of her death, if she leaves no will her own self, everything goes to . . .” Heed pauses, smiles. “Solitude Johnson.”

  Yeah. Sure. Junior scribbles quickly. She has practiced her Good Man’s handwriting to perfection. “Is that all?” she asks.

  “Shh!”

  “What?”

  “I hear something.” Heed’s eyes widen.

  “I don’t.”

  “It’s her.”

  “Christine? I don’t hear anything.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Heeds stands up, glancing around for something to use for protection. Nothing is available.

  “Stop worrying,” says Junior. “If she gets close, I’ll—”

  “Fool! She’ll wipe the floor with you!” She snatches the pen from Junior and waits. Both hear the measured footsteps ascending the ladder. Both watch the crown, then the face rise into the light. The eyes are terrible. Christine enters the room and stands still. For breath ease? To decide? Junior breaks into the quiet.

  “Oh, hi,” she says. “How’d you get here? We were just looking some stuff up. For her book, remember? Dates have to be checked, right? That’s what research is all about, they say.”

  If they hear her, they give no sign. Christine remains still; Heed is moving, cautiously taking one step, then another, the Bic clenched between palm and powerful thumb. The eyes of each are enslaved by the other’s. Opening pangs of guilt, rage, fatigue, despair are replaced by a hatred so pure, so solemn, it feels beautiful, almost holy.