His mama order him out the room, but Carter’d watched from the hallway, green eyes wide. Not scared, mind you. Jus interested. She wasn’t super ole, Gram Izzy, but well over sixty, with her heart tired out, an all ready to meet her maker. Carter an his gram had talked bout it. She been well ready, even if he hadn’t quite been.
Carter’s daddy’d watched him, watchin’ them carry out his gram’s body, had sipped on his morning beer as he slapped Carter on the back. “That’s it, son, no tears, y’all toughen up,” he grunt, then turn an slowly follow Gram’s body out to the van.
Carter let it all out then, soon as his daddy’s back was turned, tears streamin’ down his face. He banged his forehead gainst the hallway wall again an again, till his ma came an put her arms roun him, tight, like she hadn’t done since he was real li’l. Without his gram, Carter’ll die. He know that, sure as he now breathe.
Carter’s daddy shake his head as he stretch out a piece-a cloth, cut away at the edge of it with the thick black-handled scissors till a long, four-inch-wide strip falls away.
“One day you gon have to learn how to do this, son. One day real soon, so y’all can come ridin’ with me.” His right foot’s knockin’ gainst the pile-a tree branches. The sticks shift ’mong themselves like they livin’ things.
Ridin’. Carter hate it how his daddy an Nate call it that. Like it’s back in the good old days an they screamin’ through the forests on horses, white hoods lit up gainst the black night. When he was five, Carter thought his daddy had a horse somewhere, for ridin’. Thought the animal mus be tethered on a neighborin’ property. Didn’t think it was fair that his daddy always rode at night, while he was in bed. He went along one day, hidden in the back-a the truck with the canvas cover over him, bump along terrified till the car reach the end-a the road an veer into the forest. They went hurtlin’ through the darkness, screech to a stop.
Carter can’t remember it so clear now, but his daddy’s friend Nate was there, an lotsa other men from roun town. They was all dressed in ridin’ gear like his daddy’s—red or white hoods, matchin’ capes. They held long sticks: tree branches with burnin’ ends. He seen his daddy wrap them same branches with rags that very mornin’. The men was singin’ songs an spittin’ an sayin’ nigger a lot. Nigger that. Nigger this. Fucken niggers. Flags with stars on them was strung up from the trees. The men touched their burnin’ torches to a tree, crowdin’ roun it. Then Carter realized it wasn’t a tree, it was a giant cross. The cross lit up like hellfire an Carter scream an scream. His daddy foun him, dragged him out the back-a the truck an drove him home, silent nex to him in the front seat. His worried-sick mama got a yellin-at when they got there, like it was all her fault. Then his daddy drive right back out into the velvet black.
Carter recognize the material his daddy’s cuttin’ now. White flannelette, pink stars, blue clouds. His sister Lucy’s old nightgown. His daddy hold the strip-a material tight, pick up a long stick, wind the length-a material tight roun one end an he tie it in a knot. Fear snakin’ slowly down Carter’s spine. It jus don’t seem right that his daddy’s gon take that li’l sliver-a sleepwear ridin’ with him—that he gon dirty up those dainty stars an clouds that used-a wrap cozy roun li’l sleepin’ Lucy. Carter like that nightgown. Real pretty it was, with a tiny heart-shaped pocket on the front made-a light blue lace. He reach down, scratch a squito way from his ankle. When he look roun, his ma’s standin’ at the bedroom window, starin’ at him strange, like she got to doin’ lately. Carter watch her a moment.
“Nearly there, son. Gonna be a good night for it.”
His daddy’s not really talkin’ to him. Carter been sittin’ out here for well near an hour, keepin’ his daddy company while he’s sat up on that bench, preparin’. Whole time the conversation been lopsided.
Carter look down at his hand. Small cluster-a red crescent shapes are pressed into his palm. Lucy’s singin’, down there on the lawn. She’s singin’ an twirlin’ in her dress, singin’ that princess song, the one Gram Izzy taught ’em. Carter can croon the words by heart. He wanna twirl with her, to dance with the burnt grass crunchin’ under the soft bottoms-a his feet, swingin’ his hips an curtsyin’. Carter close his fist again, dig his fingernails in hard as he can, wincin’.
Feel like his daddy’s takin’ near forever to up an go ridin’. He been preparin’ things since early this mornin’. Carter, squintin’ at him from his bedroom window, was peerin’ through the dawn light, past the double row-a Mickey Dee Superman figurines on his windowsill. His daddy lope the perimeter of their ole wood an wire fence, barley sack in hand, bendin’ every now an then to pick up branches. His daddy’s six-foot-an-some self set gainst the flat fields’d looked giantlike: eerie an wrong.
Carter stare at his daddy’s hands as he double knot the material roun the stick an tuck in the ends, tuggin’ at the length-a cotton to make sure it ain’t gon come off easy. His daddy’s a big man; lean an large like Carter’s heard tell his grandaddy was. Carter ain’t never seen his grandaddy, though he heard plenty bout him from Gram. Nother woman lured his gramps away when Carter’s daddy was small, an he ain’t never been heard-a since. Lef that lanky largeness hind him, though, bloodlined in Carter’s daddy’s genes an on its way to passin’ right on down to him. Got large, strong fingers, his daddy has. Long enough, Carter reckons, to wrap themselves roun a grown man’s throat an touch tips on either side.
Carter’s daddy look down at the rest-a the butchered nightgown, pick it up from the porch, tear it quickly in half. The sudden rip of it make Carter squirm, like when his teacher run her fingers down the chalkboard. The sharp sound done startle Lucy from her song.
* * *
Delores quickly rip the small waxin’ strip from between her eyebrows. “Auugh!” The sudden movement make Ella near jump out her skin.
“Shit, Delores!” Ella say, from where she sittin’ on the edge-a the bathtub, supervisin’ Delores’s beauty regimen.
“You watch your language, sweet chile.” Delores secure the pink leopard-print scarf holdin’ back her long shimmery mass-a silver hair, pull at the knot to be sure it ain’t gon come tumblin’ down. She stretch back her long neck, press nother sticky wax strip to her chin, smooth it down over her wrinkled weather-worn skin. She lif the end-a the wax paper with her right thumb an forefinger, brace herself, pull away real quick.
“Eeeeeeee!” Don’t matter how many time she do this, she always end up squealin’ like a li’l schoolgirl. Almost seventy she be now, an lately that damn hair been springin’ up more stubborn, in the mose darn inconvenient of places.
“Now Delores, if y’all don’t stop screechin’ like that, the whole-a New Orleans—hell, the whole-a Louisiana—gon be up here in the flats askin’ what in the hell is goin’ on an who it was done got murdered.”
“Sorry, darlin’.” Delores turn to face the girl. “Them nasty hairs bout gone now?”
Ella spect Delores’s chin, peerin’ through the stickiness left hind by the waxin’ strip. “I think so. Y’all gotta wash that goop off so’s I can check properly, though.” The girl absentmindedly twirl one-a her black plaits. Few strands-a Afro-curl spring free from one-a the thick red elastic bands her nappy hair’s been stretched into.
Delores run a face washer under the hot water, wipe at the stickiness on her chin. “That hair-a yours is tryin’ to break free again, Ella,” she laugh. “It’s Beauty Day today. Remember? Why don’t y’all let me tease it right on up into that beautiful big Afro crown-a yours?”
Ella stick out her bottom lip, cross her arms over her chest. “My mama said y’all even try to come near my hair again, she gon jus bout slit your throat, Delores.”
Delores laugh, a deep rumble that echo roun the tiled white-a the bathroom. That damn chile six goin’ on seventy. “Well, if your mama say she gon kill me, then I damn near believe that lady will.”
Ella’s mama’s a force to be reckoned with, an ain’t no way Delores inten to commence that kinda reckonin’. Keep th
em five children-a hers on the straight an narrow like you wouldn’t believe, an all on her own to boot. Ella, she the only renegade in the whole bunch-a them: cheeky an stubborn, with a confidence Delores like to bottle if she could. Delores got two li’l grandpickney-a her own that she ain’t never lay eyes on, but damn, she love Ella like she hers.
Make an unlikely pair, the two-a them—Ella small for her age, still buried in puppy fat, with smooth skin the color-a coconut husk; Delores, tall, slim, an pale as light, even under this summer scorch. Graceful as Ella clumsy. Least that’s what folk tell Delores—that she graceful—an it sure what she like to believe. Taken her a long time to complish that grace, so why in hell shouldn’t she have some pride in it?
Make Delores smile when they nex to each other, her an this chile, for no reason at all than the unlikeliness of it. Sight to be seen, the two-a them, down the market an roun bout the backstreets-a New Orleans, Ella haulin’ the shoppin’ basket, helpin’ push the laundry, eatin’ from the doughnut cart down Waters Boulevard.
“Your friend ain’t come down from Sippi to visit in a while.” Ella ease herself off the edge-a the bathtub an down into the empty bath.
Delores can’t bring herself to say out loud that Izzy’s passed on, let alone break it to Ella. Once a month, Izzy used-a drive her way cross the state line an into Orleans an the three-a them would cook an eat up a storm. Izzy’d bring Delores all the news, talk bout what was goin’ on out there in Newmarket, give the lowdown on all the small-town craziness that son-a hers insist on raisin’ his poor babies on up in.
Delores been thinkin’ bout them children lately, Carter an Lucy. Izzy always swore she was gon get them out that place fore she went, sell up an move her grandpickney all down here. Aches Delores’s heart to think bout Izzy’s Carter. Soun to Delores like the kid might be headed straight for trouble. Spittin’ image of his gram, the boy was, judgin’ from Izzy’s photographs. Cept for the sheer lank of him. Delores know how it feel not to be able to stop that kinda growin’. She pull the wet flannel way from her chin, straighten her tall self up from in front-a the bathroom mirror.
“Ella. I been havin’ trouble tellin’ you somethin’.” The words feel hard an sharp in Delores’s mouth. “Izzy pass away last winter. Five months or so now.” She sit on the edge-a the bath, stare down at the girl.
Ella’s lyin’ flat gainst the cracked yellowin’ porcelain, lay out like she in a coffin, restin’ her back gainst the cool. Bath’s gotta be the mose comfortable place in the house, what with the Still havin’ crept its way here cross the delta last night. New Orleans trap this kinda heat: it collect on the concrete an brick, sink into the tar an breed more of its own. Ain’t no way to scape this kinda hot—they jus gotta wait for the breeze to break it some way.
“Oh Delores, I know she gone, I done figure that out months ago.” Ella pull herself up to sittin’, put a hand on Delores’s leg. “How you doin’ bout it?”
Delores sigh, reach down to touch Ella on the head. Can’t put nothin’ past this chile. “I’m doin’ okay, Ella. I’m doin’ okay.”
Sides Ella, Izzy’s one-a the only people come in or out Delores’s place on a regular basis. Delores ain’t ever tell Ella how her an Izzy got to knowin’ each other. The last time they together, though, after Izzy leave, Ella say, “Delores, when Izzy’s here, y’all act different. Like me with my own kin. Like love an hate all a-rolled-up into the same hug.”
“Get to be like that, when you know a person down to they bones,” Delores’d said.
Izzy talk bout her grandboy Carter a lot, bout them queer ways he had that Delores couldn’t find her way to thinkin’ was so strange at all. They talk too much, in front-a Ella, forget that she an her big ears was roun sometimes. Izzy’d talk bout Carter’s daddy, Jackson. How even though he her own son, she scared right down to her bones bout what the man gon do when he find out bout his kid.
“I’m glad you doin’ okay bout Izzy, Delores,” Ella say. “Cause I been wonderin’ when we gon get to goin’ out to see Izzy’s Carter. You know she want us to check on him. Seem to me now’s good a time as any.”
* * *
Seem to Jeanie now’s good a time as any to get to doin’ somethin’ bout the Carter situation. Somethin’ go wrong out here with him, she ain’t never gon forgive herself, an that boy might not forgive her either. Jeanie pick up the empty washin’ basket, rest it on her hip for a moment, look out the window again. The wiry gray tufts at the back-a her hubby’s cropped hair seem to be growin’ faster than the rest. Jackson’s head disappear from sight for a moment as he bend to pick up nother torch stick.
’S gettin kinda creepy, this whole Klan business. That halfwit Nate got Jackson into it after the plant shut down. Tole him it was the blacks why he couldn’t get no other job. Said the blacks was used-a livin’ on near nothin’, livin’ in their own filth. That they was ready an waitin’ to undercut any bona fide American who wanted to work for a decent pay envelope.
But that was three years ago now, an Jackson’s still not lettin’ up with it. ’S pig shit, though, what them Klansmen sayin’. Jus the way life is in Newmarket, Mississippi: god-awful hard no matter what color you made in the womb. Roun here you lucky enough to find yourself a job, Lord knows you better damn well hang on to it for dear life. Only way you find nother’s if somebody up an leave town or die, an even then you better get to the boss real quick with some kinda bribe to be first in line.
Jeanie ain’t worried bout Nate an his lot botherin’ the blacks roun here, though. Ain’t none-a them gon get strung from a tree or burned alive like they used to. Nate an his li’l Klan all bull an no bravado. Mose they gon do is light an angry fire in the woods an yell roun it with their ugly selves. ’S her Carter Jeanie’s worried bout, his daddy findin’ out bout him.
Puttin’ the basket down again, Jeanie turn back to the kids’ wardrobe. She open Carter’s side again, thrust a hand into the underwear drawer, scrabble roun, prayin’ she ain’t gon find anythin’ out the ordinary this time. She curse when her fingers hit smooth plastic. She pull up her hand, stare at the necklace. ’S one-a Lucy’s: small orange hearts strung tight along the thin black elastic. Jeanie’s belly bout tips upside with fear. She look up, out the bedroom window. Carter’s standin’ up on the porch, starin’ in at her with empty eyes.
Jeanie push the washin’ basket aside, sit down on Lucy’s bed, close her eyes a moment. She ain’t sure who or what she believe in no more but she ask the Lord, if he do exist an he up there listenin’, to help her out with this one. She lie back on the bed, the springs creakin’, her legs hangin’ off the end. She examine the cracks in the ceilin’.
Carter’s gram Izzy knew she were on her way out this world. ’S why she come to Jeanie bout Carter. If Izzy’d stayed roun till the boy was ole enough to get outta here, ole enough to run from Newmarket, maybe even Mississippi, to run like Lot an never look back, then Jeanie mighta never been landed with this problem. She mighta never hadda choose.
Jeanie turns her head to stare over at Carter’s side-a the room. Izzy’s woolen blanket’s coarse gainst her cheek, a kaleidoscope-a color framing her vision. Carter’s plastic Superman figurines, they tacked to the windowsill with gum. His dog-eared comic books, they stacked on the wooden side table nex to his bed. Jeanie miss Izzy like the Mississippi Still miss the fall breeze. Didn’t come from strong family herself, an Jackson’s mama always treat her like her own. Course, people roun here talked bout what happened with Jackson’s daddy runnin’ off, but Jeanie never pay it no mind.
Jeanie jam her fingers through a hole in the blanket, push her thumb into her mouth, suck at it like Lucy do. The day Izzy came to her bout Carter, Jeanie was home early—let go from the cleanin’ job she used-a do afternoons, cause the office she was cleanin’ done go bust. Izzy limp into the kitchen, that bad hip-a hers playin’ up, tell Jeanie to follow her. Her mama-in-law’d slowly opened the door to her own bedroom a crack, an there was Carter. His school clothes was lyin’
in a pile on the floor—musta took ’em off real quick, cause the sweatpants still had the rounds-a his legs shaped into ’em.
Carter was dressed up in a lacy white blouse an pearls, balanced on a pair-a his gram’s old dress heels. His bangs were brushed down over his eyes an his lipstick was put on better than Jeanie could do—blotted even, it looked like. That angel-voiced gal Carrie was croonin’ a country tune on Gram’s old radio as the boy sashayed an strutted. Carter’d moved like a real lady. Dainty, as if he weren’t really a boy chile at all. They closed the door quiet, crept back to the kitchen. Jeanie’d sat down in a kitchen chair, closed her eyes an swore like buggery. Made sense to her then. Made god-awful sense.
Jeanie take the thumb out her mouth, lets go the piece-a blanket, ease herself up.
“Jeanie,” Izzy say quietly, “he been like that forever. Y’all known it since Lucy was born, jus never wanted to see. I love my Jackson, an Lord knows y’all mus love my Jackson. But our Carter’s a good li’l kid, a real sweet kid. An one-a these days, Lord help that honey chile, our Jackson is gon find out bout him.” She press a piece-a paper into Jeanie’s hand. Jackson’s daddy’s address—Carter’s grandaddy—in New Orleans. Jeanie surprise Izzy even know where her ex-husband was. Far as she knew, Jackson an Izzy ain’t heard-a the man since he run off decades back. Jeanie hid the paper way, under the mattress in her an Jackson’s room, case one day it would prove useful.
Jeanie look over at the empty washin’ basket. There’s a story she heard a ways back, when she was a chile in church. Bout a li’l baby boy call Moses. What she remember, some harm was comin’ to the boy sure, so his mama, she put him in a cane basket, tuck him in real tight. An that mama, in the Bible, she float that baby right on down the river, away from the strife that was headin’ to him, even though it broke her heart.
Foreign Soil Page 10
