“What’s Ghana?” I asked puzzled.
He laughed. “It’s a country in West Africa.”
Lily had stopped to take out her compact and reapply her orange ice lipstick as if she’d already heard all about West Africa and Ghana and people from Ghana.
“I lived there for a school year,” Nathan said. “When I was a junior at Cal.”
“You lived in Africa?”
“Right.”
“They’d kill me if I went to Africa.”
“Huh?” Nathan and Lily said at the same time.
I was almost too embarrassed to explain—especially to Nathan, who, because he was very, very dark skinned, never had to worry about Africans killing him.
“Because I’m light skinned and they don’t like light-skinned Negroes there.”
“What?” he said. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“Your mother told me.”
He gave a quick snort and rolled his eyes. “It’s not true,” he said. “You know what they’d really think?”
“What?”
“They’d know you were American and they’d think you were rich.”
I thought about this.
“Hold out your hand,” he said.
I held it out.
“Shake once, slide your palm just a little bit back and snap.”
I did as he said and giggled on the snap.
“Want to do it again?”
I nodded. We did it again and I still giggled on the snap.
“Now you know how to do the Ghanaian handshake. It’s a man’s handshake, actually,” he added. “But you can use it for good luck.”
My sister hung back a bit and whispered in my ear, “Nathan knows everything.” I thought she was joking, but her expression seemed serious.
I had to add that to my list. I wanted someone who smiled when I disagreed with him and I wanted him to know everything.
Those who’d be playing first had to sit away from their families, in the front row. Both classes sat mixed together. Mrs. Virgil had only three students who’d be performing. That’s why she was having this recital with Miss Miller. It was supposed to work out fine, with us playing one after the other, no matter who our teacher was. I looked at the program we’d gotten at the door and was dismayed to see Jilly scheduled to precede me—and she was playing “Für Elise,” as well. My heart sank and I began to get the jitters. I looked back to see Nathan and Lily in the second row across the aisle.
Then I saw my mother. She was tiptoeing down the aisle, her eyes searching the faces in the auditorium. My heart began to race. I felt a weight in my stomach. I looked down at my hands. Then I looked back again and she spotted me and waved. My mother.
I didn’t even know that she’d remembered. What did this mean? Was she coming back home? She pointed to a seat in the middle of the row and started making her way to it. She was five rows behind Nathan and Lily. I saw her catch sight of them and stop to stare. She sat down slowly, then glanced at me, as if I was involved in Lily’s doings.
I turned around to avoid seeing the look on my mother’s face. I wanted to concentrate only on the part just before and after the change in “Für Elise.” I began to practice on my lap. I moved my fingers very slightly so no one would know what I was doing. I peered down the front row. Everyone looked as nervous as I felt. Even Jilly Baker was twisting a lock of hair. I’d seen her parents as soon as we’d walked in and wondered again if Deidre had told them yet what Lily had said. I came to the conclusion that she hadn’t. Maybe she’d told her sisters, but I didn’t think she’d told her parents. They hadn’t even looked my way.
Miss Miller was talking. Saying the usual things about how excited and happy she was to see all the parents in the audience and how she loved seeing this kind of support and blah-blah-blah. She wasn’t going to leave anything for Mrs. Virgil to say. Then she went on to introduce “a very talented pianist” (said in a funny way) “who promises to delight us—just delight us.” And oh yes—after the recital she hoped that members of the audience would help themselves to refreshments at the back of the auditorium. I looked back to see punch and doughnuts on a long table. But even that didn’t thrill me. In fact, with the weight in my stomach, just the sight of food made me feel queasy.
Soon, Miss Miller was introducing Jilly. Jilly sprung up out of her seat, as if eager to get to it. She even glanced over her shoulder to give me a little haughty smirk. I looked back at Nathan. He smiled at me and winked. He didn’t look like he was going to put his plan into play, and I was a little bit relieved. Lily had her arm looped through his, apparently unaware that our mother was sitting five rows behind them with her eyes on their backs.
Jilly did everything right. She emphasized the sudden B-flat chord in just the right place. She made the first change effortlessly, and she made her face look like a concert pianist—all solemn and stuff. I liked the way she seemed to softly rake the keys at times and at other times made her fingers dance on them. Oh, well. So what if I hadn’t acquired those gestures and I was still just trying to get through the piece without messing up?
Mrs. Virgil had been showing me how to do a crescendo to bring the B flat out. The ABACA was easy because it repeats itself, but those changes! I always hesitated, and that made everything so awkward.
Before I knew it, Jilly was rising from the bench and bowing to applause. She glanced at me again and gave me the faintest hint of a smile. It was not a friendly smile. It was a smile that said, “Your turn.”
Mrs. Virgil was already up at the mic introducing me. I didn’t know what she was saying exactly, but I knew I was standing and walking on shaky legs to the piano.
“And we’re in for a treat because we get to hear ‘Für Elise’ again with Sophie LaBranche.”
There might have been clapping, but I could hear only my thumping heart.
I sat down on the piano bench and moved it forward. I positioned my fingers on the keys. I put my feet on the pedals and then I chanced a look at my audience. Everyone was gazing at me with expectation. I smiled and avoided looking at Jilly Baker, who probably thought I wouldn’t be any good because I was colored.
I began.
It felt as if I was crawling, even through the easy beginning. My heart pounded at every change. I could have done the crescendo better. Mrs. Virgil was probably making a mental note of that and I was sure to hear about it. Finally, with every change a struggle, I crawled to the end. I sat there for a couple of seconds after I played the last note. I had to steady myself before I stood up and managed my bow.
The best part about the whole thing was walking back to my seat and watching all the other kids go through their own special torment. One by one. I turned around to see Lily give me a thumbs-up and Nathan nod slowly. But where was my mother? When I looked for her to see what she thought of my performance, she was gone. She must have left just after I finished.
So in the end, what did anything matter? Other than just getting through it.
CHAPTER 16
Once a Little Girl (and Before That, a Baby)
* * *
LILY WAS GOING OFF with Nathan to get together with some of his friends, so I went into the house alone. I could take Oscar out and walk by Anthony Cruz’s house. I could see what Jennifer was up to. I could memorize lines. I could read.
But nothing was of the slightest interest to me. At this hour, only the news would be on television. Still, that’s what I opted for. I dragged myself into the den, still in my new dress, turned on Channel Seven, and flopped down in front of the TV. I could hear Mrs. Baylor in the kitchen. I thought I smelled meatloaf baking in the oven. I wasn’t hungry. Too many doughnuts at the recital. As soon as I had finished “Für Elise” and sat down, my appetite had returned.
I got up at some point, walked to my room, changed into pedal pushers and a T-shirt, and sat on my bed. I had twenty-three more pages of Footlights for Jean to read and it was the good part, but I knew the book was going to remain
closed on my nightstand. I pulled out the script from under the bed and placed it on my lap. I felt not a bit of inspiration. I thumbed through it, checking for Jennifer’s parts. She had lots of lines.
If I was going to be Olivia, I needed to memorize her lines before tryouts in two weeks. Tomorrow, I vowed.
I returned to the den and the Nightly News. Boring stuff about troop increases in Vietnam. I watched a grainy report and wished I’d gotten home early enough for General Hospital. Even though I couldn’t understand the appeal of Nurse Jessie Brewer when she always acted so unhappy, talked in a deep monotone, and hardly ever smiled. She was super-serious about everything.
Yet men were always falling in love with her. I didn’t get it, but still, I liked to watch—every day in the summer and whenever I could get home from school early enough the rest of the year.
I heard Mrs. Baylor moving around in the kitchen, preparing my dinner. I got off the sofa, crept into my daddy’s home office, and eased the door closed behind me. I stood there a moment, looking around. I wanted to see if the letter I’d discovered under the desk organizer from that Paula person had been opened. If it had, I could read it.
I sat down in his chair and resisted the urge to spin around. I couldn’t get caught up in silly things. I had to hurry before Mrs. Baylor called me to dinner. I looked at the desk organizer for a moment, then lifted it. Nothing. Nothing. The letter was gone—it was probably in my dad’s pocket. I was disappointed.
I twirled in his chair just once, then stopped. Maybe he’d put it in one of the drawers. I opened the file drawer and went through the folders. No luck. Then I tried to open the drawer just above. It was stuck. Something was catching. Something was in the way. I hadn’t looked in this drawer during my last visit to my father’s office.
Now I sighed, tugged on it, and managed to get it open. I reached into the back of the drawer and pulled out an old, bent Jet magazine. It was from September 22, 1955. Ten years ago. I could easily imagine my father being annoyed by the drawer but just letting it go. It was probably a drawer he didn’t use much, anyway.
I loved Jet magazine. It reported all the colored celebrity news and gossip and it was full of interesting pictures. The cover showed a light-skinned girl in a bathing suit. “A pretty Los Angeles City College student,” the caption stated. I checked her closely to see if she was all that good-looking. She had a nice smile and a nice figure. I guessed most would think she was pretty.
I turned a page to see a picture of Nat King Cole and “the tall, beautiful Maria Ellington”—whom he was going to marry and make Maria Cole. I stared at her. She was fair skinned, too, with straight hair and light eyes. “Tall and beautiful,” the magazine said.
I turned a few more pages, looking for more old celebrity news, and stopped at a small headline: NATION HORRIFIED BY MURDER. I stared. There was a picture of a young boy standing next to his mother. Colored. He was the one who was murdered, I guessed, and it was odd to think of a young boy murdered. He looked so alive and happy in the picture, but since his photo was right under the headline, he must have been the murdered one.
The boy and his mother were both dressed up. As if it was Easter or something. And they were smiling. She had her hand on his shoulder and a proud look on her face. The caption said the boy’s name was Emmett Till.
I turned the page and let out a cry. I slapped my hand over my mouth. I saw something so horrible, it didn’t seem it was meant to be seen. That same boy was in his casket. His face was smashed. His head looked like a pumpkin that had been dropped from a second story. He looked like a monster. I couldn’t tell where his eyes were.
I quickly turned to the closed office door. I could still hear Mrs. Baylor in the kitchen, cooking my dinner. She’d be calling me soon.
I found myself shaking my head slowly and whispering, “No, no, no.”
What had happened to that boy, Emmett Till? “What happened to you?” I said under my breath as my eyes filled with tears. “Who did that to you?”
I tucked the magazine under the elastic waist of my pedal pushers and pulled my shirt over it. I slipped out of my daddy’s office and into my room just as Mrs. Baylor was calling me to dinner. I stashed the magazine under my pillow and went to the kitchen.
She’d set one place at the table and dished up the green beans, mashed potatoes, and meatloaf. I stared at the plate of food. She stood there looking at me with a strange expression on her face.
“Help yourself to more if you want,” she said as she took off her apron and headed to her room. She glanced back at me over her shoulder as I pulled out the chair and sat down, and a strange look passed over her face. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something but then thought better of it. It wasn’t anything mean or curt or critical. Maybe she wanted to ask me how my recital went. Or maybe she wanted to ask me about Nathan and Lily—find out what I knew, what I thought. I would tell her that I thought they loved each other and no one could stop true love. But she turned and went up to her room with slow, heavy steps.
I wasn’t hungry. I stared at my plate of food. I felt so tired. And sad, about everything, everywhere. I ate all of my dinner anyway. So Mrs. Baylor would be pleased.
Then I watched all the Friday night TV I wanted, but by the time Peyton Place came on, I was too sleepy to continue. I went to my room, got into my pajamas, and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth (I was trying to be better about that). All that time, I was listening for Nathan’s car or my daddy’s or my mother’s—someone’s!—to turn the corner and pull up in the driveway or in front of the house. The street was quiet.
I pulled the Jet magazine out from under my pillow and read the article and stared at the happy, smiling face of Emmett Till—when he was just being a person, just being fourteen with Bobo for a nickname. There were also pictures of his two cousins. He’d had a last happy day before they did that to him. The report said he’d whistled at a white woman. And that two white men had come for him in the night. Dragged him away from his family. And threatened to pistol-whip his grandmother. His grandmother. Two big white men. What was in their hearts? What was in their souls, that they would pistol-whip an old woman if she tried to stop them from taking her grandson?
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I put my face in my hands and knew exactly why people put their face in their hands. It’s because there’s nothing else you can do. We didn’t live in Mississippi, but hate was under the surface everywhere. Wasn’t it? Even if it was a sneaky kind of hate. It made people look at me and automatically think they were superior. It made them think I was a thief or maybe I’d do something to their swimming pool . . . and that white was better.
I lowered my hands and stared at the smiling picture of Emmett Till and thought, He didn’t even know what was coming. I heard a car and caught my breath. But it went by.
With a fresh and minty mouth, I got on my knees and began my prayers. First the Lord’s Prayer, which was more serious than “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to God my soul to keep.” It was the prayer I said when I needed hope and wasn’t in a hurry.
Then I prayed the extra part, that my mother would come home and Lily wouldn’t leave me in a few weeks to go off to Georgia (though I wasn’t very hopeful about that) and that my father would be true to my mother and that Lily and Nathan would get married and that starving children would get food and that all the soldiers would come home from Vietnam. (While I was on my knees in my clean pajamas and my freshly brushed teeth, I thought I might as well pray for everything I could think of. I did not want God to find me selfish.) And I added Mrs. Baylor. I prayed that one day she would like me because I never ever, ever, ever thought that my color was better than anyone else’s. Ever. I prayed for Emmett Till—and his mother. And his father. And that he was in heaven. (Although there was no picture of his father, he must have had a father.) I prayed for his cousins, too, and his grandparents, whether alive or not.
I heard the floor creak in the hall just as I
stood up. I looked around to see Mrs. Baylor standing there with her arms full of folded sheets. I felt my face grow warm. She left the door and went to put the sheets away in the linen closet next to the bathroom. Then she came back.
She stood there in the doorway and looked at me with her head cocked to the side and her eyes squinting.
“Let me tell you something, child,” she began.
I braced myself.
“You are a good girl.”
I looked at her and began to cry.
She came and sat next to me on the bed. She took my hand. “I should have never said to you that thing I said.”
“About the Africans?”
She snorted. “Can I tell you a story?”
She didn’t wait for my answer. She just took a deep breath and began.
“This ol’ lady here,” she said, bringing her finger up to touch her chest, “was once a little girl—just like you.” She sighed. “And before that, a baby.”
Mrs. Baylor paused, thinking back, I supposed.
I dared to look at her then to find out if I could see the little girl in her. Or the baby. I couldn’t quite, but I knew she had to have been one once. She stared down at her hands. “I’ma tell you why I said something so hateful. Though there is no excuse.”
More tears welled in my eyes. I think it was all the emotions of the day: getting ready for the recital, feeling nervous, having stage fright, seeing my mother, and discovering what had happened to Emmett Till.
“I know you feel alone,” she started.
The tears came. I quickly wiped them away.
“Listen to me. I was born in Jamaica. My mother did not want me because she did not like my father, her husband. She married him because he could give her things. He had a good government job, but she never wanted to have a baby by him. He was a very black man. He looked like an African. But here I came anyway. It was God’s will. And a girl. Who took after her father. I looked just like my daddy shrunk down.”
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