* * *
Delores shuffle to the kitchen, fill the kettle with water, set it on the stove an turn on the gas beneath it. She thinkin’ bout the Still—bout the way it creep up on Newmarket an lay on top the land like some kinda smotherin’ blanket. Way the air is eerie an it seem like every wounded ghost who ever set foot in the place be roamin’ invisible roun the forests.
It broke Delores’s heart to leave Mississippi, get way from the strife that was surely headin’ to her. Broke her heart, though she love New Orleans, Louisiana, like a second chile: jus as fierce, but without the terror an apprehension. ’S always the firstborn you remember: the trouble they gave you in the dark-a night, how you worried so very much bout gettin’ it right.
Was Izzy who persuade her to leave in the end, even though Delores been so deceitful bout things in the firs place. Was Izzy tole her no one out there was gon ’cept ways they thought was so strange. That she better run herself right outta town fore somebody found out bout her. If they did, Izzy said, Delores wouldn’t end up nowhere but stuck beneath that small town forever, in a seven-foot wooden box. So Delores hightail it outta there, an lef Izzy to deal with the mess.
Delores set out a large cocoa mug for Ella, a dainty rose-rimmed teacup for herself. Izzy gave her the teacups an saucers. Say she foun them real cheap in a thrift store downstate. They was part of a set that came with too many saucers an cups, so Izzy brought some up to her. The cup’s a delicate thing, hand-painted roses roun the outside an inside rim. Izzy laugh when she tell Delores bout bringin’ the dinner set home—how Jackson’d stormed out, sayin’ he weren’t gon eat off some used-already plates some nigger mighta spit on. Delores didn’t find that so funny at all, even back then. Thought sooner or later some doubts oughta raise themselves in Izzy’s mind bout the capabilities-a that son-a hers. An sure enough, eventually they did.
Cross the table Ella’s slurpin’ at her cocoa, so loud an deliberate Delores gotta stop herself from scoldin’. She look down instead, at the inside rim-a her teacup. She put it gently down on the saucer, trail her fingertips over the rose pattern. She still can’t stop thinkin’ bout the way she turn Izzy’s life upside down. Bout how Izzy never falter from bein’ there for her anyways. Bout that family-a hers, still out there in Newmarket. Bout that dear li’l Carter.
Delores got tears streamin’ down her face. She get up real quick, fore Ella can see how upset she is an start worryin’ her bout the cause of it. The chile don’t notice none; she drain the cocoa from her cup an start jumpin’ up an down.
“It’s Beauty Day, Delores. C’mon, when we gon get the nail varnishes out?”
* * *
Lucy’s jumpin’ up an down now, one hand holdin’ the pale blue headband onto her head. “Why Daddy cuttin’ up my clothes?” she ask.
Carter been tryin’ not to look his sister’s way, forcin’ himself not to watch, but now he turns. Smiles. He like the way the dress fits, fallin’ down from the spaghetti straps, tight till jus below chest level, then cascadin’ loosely to the knee. He dig his fingers into his palm again, can feel his fingernails this time, cuttin’ through the skin. Gram Izzy bought the dress for Lucy last summer. Carter remembers it comin’ home with his gram after one-a her visits to her ole school friend in New Orleans. Two sizes too big for Lucy it was, an elastic enough to fit a body much bigger. Gram’d winked at him as she hung it in the wardrobe.
“They old clothes I’m cuttin’ up, Lucy love, don’t you fret.” Carter’s daddy’s tone change when he speak to Lucy. Carter never hear him speak so softly, so gently, any other time. Never even to his ma.
His daddy tie a length-a twine tight roun the material on the end of a torch stick, pick up the pile-a rag-wadded branches an walk over to the truck. He dump the torches on top the pile already in the truck bed, look at his watch. He turn to face Carter an Lucy, hitch his too-baggy blue jeans up at the waist. “It’s almost eleven. Y’all done have a snack yet?”
They shake they heads.
“Jeanie!” their daddy yell toward the house. “These kids hungry, y’all get ’em somethin’ to eat, you hear?”
When his daddy drive away, the heavy wheels-a the truck fling the dry dirt every which way, till all Carter an Lucy can see is a small storm-a beige dirt, movin’ slowly away through the endless Still. Carter’s stomach turn over as he an Lucy move into the house, her skip-stumblin’ up the front stairs, him a half step behind her, marvelin’ at the way the ruffled red-pink hem-a her dress bounce an sway.
Carter love Lucy. Way she moves in that easy way li’l girls do. Part from anythin’ else, Lucy’d made him know what was wrong bout him. He can still remember the way he felt so swallowed up in with the other boys when he first started at school—way their snotty noses an clumsy, loud ways made him black inside; the sweaty, sour smell-a the boys’ washroom that still make his tummy turn itself inside out.
Then his ma’s belly got big, an tiny li’l Lucy came home from the hospital with her. An with Lucy came the things: the hair clips an the tiny pink bears, the dolls an those sweet-smellin’ flower-shaped baby soaps. When folk came to visit, they brought pink cardigans with ribbons on them, lace-ringed baby bonnets. They was things Carter’s ma, lovely as she is in her jeans an T-shirts an woolen jumpers, never had roun the house before. Outta nowhere, Lucy’d come, an she had made Carter know, made everythin’ okay.
Even back then, his daddy’d been bothered by it all. His mama’d thought there weren’t nothin’ odd bout it, jus he was a mite curious. “Leave him alone, Jackson, he jus a tiny boy. He don’t know them things ain’t s’posed to be for him,” she’d kept sayin’.
But Carter weren’t a boy, he knew it right back then; way that word felt like a shotgun, aimed dead center-a his head. Boy. Like a cocked barrel. Like some kinda threat.
Carter’s learned to secret things away, find quiet corners where he can play with his sister’s toys, learned to wear hats to hide his hair growin’ jus that half inch longer. He push bracelets high up his arms an hide ’em neath the baggy sleeves of sweaters. Once he even pinch a jar-a sparkly purple nail varnish from the drugstore, tuck it into his sock when his ma was busy with Lucy. He paint his littlest toenail under the covers that night, keep it hidden neath his sock for a week, then scratch off the glittery varnish the night fore gym class.
* * *
Delores take the lid off the blue bucket, tip the small glass jars-a nail varnish out onto the couch. They clink gainst each other as they tumble: reds, yellows, greens, purples. Some-a the jars unopened, plastic still ringin’ the lids, waitin’ for they Beauty Day debut. Ten years she been workin’ on this collection. Long as she got the dollars in her pocket she buy up a new shade every time she stumble on one. Got glitter polish, glow in the dark, even press-on silver stars she bought five years ago on vacation in Las Vegas. Her collection prove handy for the performers, come carnival time.
“Perfect day for it.” She turn to Ella. “Heat like this, our varnish gon dry in no time at all.”
Ella don’t answer. She miles way. All the excitement done disappear an she look like she sulkin’ or somethin’: her bottom lip pokin’ out so far it’s damn near draggin’ on the polished wood floor. “Delores,” she say, “I just still can’t believe you not gon go check on Izzy’s boy. After how long you known each other? An you damn know that boy got no one out there that understand him.”
“Chile, I don’t wanna hear nother word of it. There jus some things y’all li’l ones can’t understand. You gotta take my word for it.” Delores don’t often hold things back from Ella. Fact, she can’t remember the last time she properly did, but the goddamn chile won’t let up. “Y’all gon choose a color, or what?”
“Bet Carter’d love our Beauty Days an all.”
“Ella! Quiet yourself!” Delores ain’t mean to raise her voice. Sounded so much harsher than she intend.
“Y’all cryin’, Delores?” Ella’s lookin’ at her now, starin’ real close, worried.
�
��I’m sorry, Ella. I think maybe we should go on an cancel our Beauty Day today. I got a lotta sewin’ to do for the carnival an I ain’t gon be able to pay my rent less I got the costume work all done.” Delores get up from the couch so the chile can’t see her face but Ella follow her, cranin’ her neck to see if she really upset, touchin’ her arm.
Been years since her days in Newmarket came to Delores like this, so clear an unforgivin’. She can smell the dry rot-a the wooden house, hear the sassafras out front rustlin’. Can taste Izzy’s pie—the one she always got to makin’ for her an Jackson from the mulberry tree cross the way. Back fore Delores properly existed. Back when Delores were still Denver, an Denver were still Izzy’s husband.
Denver an Izzy been married nine years an already had Jackson by the time Izzy found out bout Delores. Delores can’t even remember Denver clear now. Not how it felt to be him. Not every day carryin’ that brawn, or that clumsiness—not the men’s jeans an bulky shirts, the furry all-over hair. In Delores’s memory, Denver jus facts, jus details. Not a man an a body that actually used-a be her.
Denver work in senior operations at the meat plant. Denver came home six nights a week stinkin-a flesh an bone an blood. Denver love his wife, an adore his son. Denver were a good, hard-workin’ southern man. But Denver been so miserable inside that if he didn’t become Delores some way permanent, not jus the nights he stole Izzy’s fake pearls an drove to edge-a-town bars, he was surely gon die. Make Delores ill to think bout it, so she don’t much let herself now days. Denver ain’t her no more. He jus the man her best friend Izzy married then split from. He jus somebody she used-a know, long time ago. The real her was born when she came to Orleans. Real her is Delores.
“Don’t cry.” Ella’s hands are huggin’ roun her waist. The li’l girl’s starin’ up at her, holdin’ tight. “I jus can’t get to understandin’ why you not gon go get your grandbaby,” she say, shakin’ her plaits furious. “Specially when y’all gotta know what it be like out there.”
“What you talkin’ bout, Ella?” Delores ask sharply. She take a hanky from inside her sleeve, wipe at her eyes. Must be she hearin’ things, she so upset.
“Delores,” Ella say, that cheeky dimple-a hers dippin’ in an out her chubby cheek, “I know you all woman these days. But truly, ain’t no real-life born-in-a-lady’s-body woman got feet an hands that damn big.” Ella’s smilin’ now, gigglin’ up at her.
“Your mama know?” Delores sniffle.
“Everybody in this part-a New Orleans know you wasn’t born in a Delores body. Don’t nobody care roun here. You Delores now, an Delores the only way we knows you.”
Delores tuck her hanky back up her sleeve, look down at Ella. Small as she is, that chile sure talk some sense. “You hungry? What y’all want for lunch?”
“Tin spaghetti,” Ella grin back, “if y’all got some.”
* * *
Jeanie open the pantry, stare at the small stash-a tin food, pick out a can-a spaghetti. She pull the ring top, peel back the metal lid, tip the contents into a bowl, press a few buttons on the microwave. She jus don’t understand what turn her husband to this ridin’ business. Her an Jackson been together since high school. Used-a be he were a reasonable man. Then the grime an the ghosts an the gloom of Mississippi, they got inside-a him. Long years, these last few been with him.
She open the fridge door, unwrap two slices-a cheese, fetch a loaf from the bread box an pop a couple pieces into the toaster.
“Getti, getti, yum yum! Spaghetti for my tum tum!” Lucy bang her fork on her white plastic high chair tray.
“Settle down, Lucy.”
Carter’s sittin’ at the table opposite Lucy, in front-a his empty plate. Jeanie pop the toast up, put a slice on each plate, spoon the spaghetti on top, place a slice-a cheese over the hot pasta.
“You all right, Cart?”
Carter look down at his plate. Jeanie swallow hard, reach out to the windowsill bove the sink, pull a cigarette out the packet. Izzy’s voice, it ringin’ an ringin’ in her ears. One-a these days, Lord help that honey chile, our Jackson is gon find out bout him. Jackson ain’t never hurt a soul, far as Jeanie know. Never raise a hand to her in all the years they been together. But even his mama, who know him like the back-a her hand, say he weren’t gon handle this. Somethin’ in him now. Somethin’ wrongful.
Jeanie flick the cigarette lighter on, watch the flame for a second. Take her three goes to light up, her hands shakin’ so damn much. Cigarette burn down fast, glowin’ red end eatin’ away the white paper of it. She got no words to explain it all to Carter. Jeanie ain’t no good at this kinda stuff, an don’t understand it much herself. Kid’s gotta know she loves him, though, don’t he?
Jeanie toss the cigarette butt into the sink, reach fast for nother, hand still tremblin’. Carter’s watchin’ her again from the corner-a his eye, like he know somethin’s comin’.
Carter wipe the sweat off his brow with the blue-an-white-striped dish towel that’s sittin’ on the edge-a the kitchen table, look up from the gooey mess on his plate an over at his ma. She standin’ by the kitchen sink, cigarette in hand, thin shoulders bony neath her light green T-shirt sleeves. Hind her, the kitchen window look out onto the half mile-a brown grass that separates their property from their nearest neighbors’. From the shoulders up, set gainst the windowscape like that, Carter’s ma blends with the scenery. Like she risin’ sorrowful from the middle-a the Still.
A thin gray cloud-a cigarette smoke hover in front-a her face, decidin’ which direction to take. Ain’t no breeze, even though the large window’s been slid wide open. The smoke slowly dissolves, his ma’s features grow clear again.
“Eat it, Carter. Ain’t nothin’ else.”
Carter ain’t hungry. He lif his glass, take a long drink-a the cool water, shift in his seat, unstick his sweaty legs from the vinyl seat covers, wincin’ as his sof thigh skin peel free. Carter never eat much in the Still. The Still: name’s stuck now. Was Carter’s gram who started callin’ it that, this eerie forty-eight hours or so in the middle-a summer when all the delta hold steady. These strange few days every year when the ragin’ river seem so paralyze with heat that the currents dull to a whisper, when even the sassafras out front-a the house quits movin’: every branch holdin’ straight an sniper-silent.
* * *
Ella’s slurpin’ up her lunch like she ain’t eaten in weeks. She peel the tin lid herself, say she don’t even need no plate or to have the pasta warmed up.
“Things all right over there at your mama’s?” Delores ask. “Y’all got enough to eat?”
Ella stop shovelin’ the food in an look over at her. “We got plenty, thank you,” she damn near snarl. “Y’all don’t have to worry bout callin’ the welfare or nothin’.”
“Ella,” Delores say firmly, “y’all know that ain’t why I’m askin’.”
Kid put her face right back in the can, use her finger to wipe the sides clean. Ella don’t never ask for no food. One thing she always polite bout. Delores remind herself she gotta get more vigilant bout offerin’ it up.
Ella jus bout finished her meal when they hear the knock.
“That be one-a yours callin’ for you, Ella,” Delores warn. “You wanna take some more-a them cans over to your mama’s? Don’t know why I got so many-a them anyways. Take them all with you, chile. Must be I pick ’em up by accident, ’cause I damn hate the way that tin spaghetti get squashed ’tween my teeth.” Delores lyin’ like the FBI, an they both know it. Times, they still hard, an couple less cans in the cupboard mean a couple less meals for Delores.
Ella’s makin’ sure not to look in Delores’s face as she puttin’ the tins in a paper bag. The knockin’ start up at the door again. Noise make ’em both turn they head to stare.
“One-a my own ain’t gon be knockin’ like that,” Ella say. “Not less somebody drop dead or somethin’.” She put the bag down on the table, rush cross the kitchen, through the small living room an over to the balcony doors
. She step outside onto the balcony, hang her nosy head down over the edge. “Mail truck’s parked jus down a way, Delores. Think it might be the mailman!”
Delores shuffle over to the balcony, peer down at the street, curious. Soon as she step out the glass door, the sun burn up on her like fire. The washin’ lines strung from the balconies opposite, they still filled with clothes, ’cause ain’t nobody on her street braved the Still to take them in. Seem like the city be all heat an angles: doors an balconies an windows an pavements, with jus a smatterin-a trees an people sandwiched in between.
“Well I never. I wonder what he got for me that ain’t gon fit through the slot. Ain’t no mailman ever come up here personal before.” Delores don’t wanna open the door. Anythin’ can’t be written in a letter, well, that jus gotta be bad news, ain’t it? She don’t know nobody much from back in Newmarket no more, an nobody she know in the city gon waste money on postage when they all can jus pick up the phone or drop on by.
Less it’s bout Carter. Delores’s stomach knot up. She double over, reach out her hand so she don’t topple off the balcony. What her Jackson done? What that gettin-evil son-a hers gone an done to that precious li’l born-into-the-wrong-body boy?
Delores lef Newmarket when Jackson was roun Carter’s age. Hardest thing she ever did, but her an Izzy both decide it was for the best. Boy was too young to understand it all. Delores had run from that backward place, from the whole-a Mississippi. Izzy say the boy ask for his daddy every day for near a year. Broke Izzy’s heart to tell Jackson his daddy run off for nother woman, but in a way that was God’s own truth.
Foreign Soil Page 11
