We follow him through the living room and into the kitchen. Lydia sits in a chair and pulls me onto her lap. She puts her chin on top of my head, but her lap is too skinny. Her bones hurt my booty.
Uncle Root picks up the phone on the wall. “Hello? Miss Rose, I have your grandbabies.” He waits and there’s squawking.
“Say she’s still mad, huh? This one over here is ’bout a wet hen, too. Well, what did Maybelle Lee expect? Children don’t have any sense. Did she think they’d just wait at the store while she drove around? She should know better. If this was Atlanta, no telling who’d have these girls.”
More squawking, and he makes a silly face. “All right, Miss Rose. Okay. All right. That’s fine.” He hangs up and tells us our granny says we should spend the night in his guest room.
Lydia says, “That sounds fine.”
I say, “Yeah, that sounds fine.”
“But first, young ladies, let’s ride over to the Cluck-Cluck Hut. Get us some chicken and biscuits and French fries. Matter of fact, let’s stop back by the Pig Pen for some ice cream. I got a pie in the freezer and we’re about to have us a party. Power to the people!”
He raises his fist.
I say, “Ooh wee!”
Before it’s time for bed, Lydia asks Uncle Root for another sheet to put underneath me. I’m scared she’ll tell him what I told her about the long-haired lady, but Lydia don’t say nothing. Doesn’t. That night, the long-haired lady comes to my dream, but she only sits with me. In the morning there’s no yellow stain. Lydia tells me that’s what she’s talking ’bout. Two nights in a row with no wetting the bed. Who’s a big girl?
And I say, “I am!”
“Give me some skin, big girl!” I hit her hand hard and she turns her palm down: “Now, on the Black hand side!”
For breakfast, Uncle Root makes us cheese and eggs and pancakes topped with butter and syrup. He says he knows how to feed some hungry children. Don’t play him cheap.
Then we are going and going in his long car back to the country. At the driveway, we all climb out of the car, but Uncle Root tells me to stay with him. Let my sister go first. The screen door opens, and Mama comes out to the porch and down the steps. My sister runs to her. She’s crying, and Mama hugs her and rocks her side to side.
Lydia says, “I’m sorry.”
Mama says, “It’s all right, darling. It’s okay.”
* * *
I’m nine already, because my birthday was a week ago. I’m looking for Lydia to walk to the creek with me. It’s Friday afternoon. Baybay James’s mama came and got him and Boukie Crawford, and I’m bored. If my big sister comes with me to the creek, she’ll break off pieces of the sugarcane and give that to me to suck until the juice runs out. But when I call her name, Lydia doesn’t answer.
I run to Coco on the front steps. “Come on! Let’s go to the creek! Let’s go!”
“You sure are full of energy. You need to settle down.”
Coco fusses like an old lady and looks like one, too. Her hair’s braided and wrapped into two buns. She climbs up from the steps and calls through the screen door, asking can we walk to the creek?
A voice comes back. “You taking the baby?”
“Yes, Mama, I got her.”
“All right, then. Y’all be careful.”
Coco takes a long stick from the pile by the side of the house. There’re blackberry bushes on the way to the creek, and the stick’ll protect us from snakes. Then she decides which way. We can walk north, but then we’d hit the soybeans that Uncle Norman’s planted. After that, there’s a forest with trees and shadows, like in a fairy tale. That scares me, so we take the longer way, walking east through the peach trees until we come to the dirt road.
Now we have to choose again. If we take one direction we’ll walk out to the highway, but that’s not allowed. If we walk the other direction, we’ll go past the burned-down plantation house and the old general store. That road will end at our family church, Red Mound. So we have to turn west again: that’s the way to the creek. There, we see a light-green pickup truck parked on the grass, and Lydia on a blanket on the ground. Her long hair’s out of her plaits. Her shirt and bra are off, and I see her breasts. There’s a man standing over her. A grown man. Tony Crawford, Boukie’s cousin. Tony goes to our church, and he is naked, and he’s stroking his long, long penis.
Coco slaps her hand over my mouth and drags me by my hand back to the main road. She starts running, as I try to keep up. Slow down, I beg her. My legs are tired. She doesn’t stop until the plantation house. I breathe fast, my hands on my knees.
“Coco, why was Lydia naked? And that man Tony, too?”
She sighs and stays quiet for a while.
“Okay, like, she was hot, Ailey. It’s really hot today—and—and—that’s why she had her shirt off. And—and—the man—he was trying to compete with Lydia. It was a game, okay? Just a game to see who could pee the farthest. And—and—boys urinate standing up instead of sitting down. With their penis. That’s what that thing was.”
“I know that. I’ve seen a penis before, lots of times. I saw Gandee’s in the bathtub. He made me touch it, and it stood up like Tony’s.”
She socks my shoulder.
“Ow, stop, Coco! You’re heavy-handed!”
“Don’t you ever say that again about Gandee. Do you hear me? Ever, to anybody. It would hurt Mama’s feelings real, real bad. She would cry all the time and wouldn’t stop. And you don’t want that, do you? Pinky swear?”
I think about that awhile. I like to think now. I don’t like people pushing me around.
“What about Lydia? Would her feelings be hurt, too?”
“Definitely.” Coco sticks out a short finger and I hook mine to hers and I swear I never will say a thing. On the walk back to the house, she starts talking to herself. She’s like an old lady again, only she curses under her breath. She says she’s glad that Gandee’s dead. She damned sure is. That low-down motherfucker. That nasty asshole.
Lydia’s gone at dinnertime, and Mama walks through the house, out the door, and into the field that Miss Rose says is her front yard. Mama calls my sister’s name. She asks Coco and me, do we know where our sister has gone? No, ma’am, we say, but then it’s dark. There are no streetlamps out in the country, only june bugs. She starts calling people on the phone, and Uncle Root and Uncle Norman and Aunt Pauline come to the house. Aunt Pauline sits with my mama on the plastic-covered sofa and reads out loud from her Bible about the Lord is her shepherd, and she shall not want, but my mama’s still upset.
Then she calls my name and kneels down in front of me. She asks again, had I seen Lydia?
“Tell me, baby,” Mama says. “It’ll be all right. I won’t be mad at you.”
When she begins to cry, I tell her about what I saw at the creek, but I don’t tell about Gandee, so maybe my pinky swear wasn’t broken. Coco’s mad at me. I can tell. She stares at me hard.
Mama tells me what a good girl I am, then she calls the sheriff’s office, though my granny begs her not to. No telling what the law would do to a colored man, once they get hold of him, but Mama doesn’t care. She calls anyway, but the sheriff says she needs to call back the next day. He couldn’t do anything until Lydia’s been missing for twenty-four hours.
Uncle Root starts calling Black folks in town, asking them about my sister. He tells them she’s very light-skinned with long hair in two braids to her waist. She’s tall, too, but she hasn’t yet filled out, so she looks her age, which is fifteen going on sixteen. And have they seen her with Tony Crawford?
I’m not hungry at breakfast, and neither is Coco. We sit on the front steps of the porch and that’s how we see Lydia in the passenger side of Tony’s truck. Lydia opens the door, but Tony must have said something, because she stops before she kisses him on the mouth. That’s what Mama sees when she comes out of the house, before Tony drives away. She yells down from the porch to Lydia. She tells her she better not move. My big sister stands
, shaking, and Mama runs out to the field, through the peach trees. She comes back with a switch, and Lydia starts screaming.
The screen door slams, and my granny walks onto the porch.
“Wait a minute now, Belle. Let the child explain.”
“What explanation? That nigger kissed her!”
The screen door slams again. This time, it’s Uncle Root.
“Maybelle Lee. Don’t do this, beloved. Please don’t. This isn’t like you.”
But Mama starts stripping the leaves off the switch, and my big sister is screaming even louder.
“Cry all you want! Go ahead! But you’re going to get this whipping. And let me tell you why. You’re getting whipped because you scared the shit out of me. I was wondering where you were and whether you were alive or dead! My fifteen-year-old child . . .” Mama shakes the branch in my sister’s direction. Tears leak from her eyes, but she doesn’t wipe them away. “. . . and your granny didn’t even want me to call the police! Said if I did, Tony Crawford might end up killed, because that’s the way they do Black men in this town. But when I called the sheriff anyway, he told me fast girls run away all the time. That’s what he called you! A fast girl! He didn’t even care about you, because you were somebody’s Black daughter. So I started to pray. That’s all I could do, Lydia. Pray that nigger wouldn’t kill my child. That she would come back home.”
I’m standing in front of the porch and crying, and Coco’s on the step behind me. She hugs me around the shoulders. Mama drops the peach branch and falls to the ground. She starts to holler like at church. To wave her hands like when the Spirit comes around, only Mama doesn’t sound happy. She doesn’t sound blessed by God, and Uncle Root runs down the steps and pulls her into his arms. He tells her not to cry. Please don’t cry, beloved, but Lydia doesn’t move from her place in the yard. And my sister’s still screaming.
At church on Sunday, I sit between Coco and my granny. On the other side, there’s Uncle Norman. Nobody else from our family is there. Nobody’s been talking much since my sister came home. I feel bad this morning, so I wore a dress that Lydia made for me. I twirled in my dress to make her smile, but she didn’t say anything and I hope she’s not mad at me for tattling.
Before the sermon, Mr. J.W. leads us in a song. He’s the head deacon, and he gives one line and then we give it back. But Mr. J.W. has a very bad voice, and even though I’m sad about my sister, I want to laugh. I cover my mouth, because I don’t want to get in trouble.
Elder Beasley stands up from his chair. He goes to the lectern and flips through his Bible.
“The text that I take this morning comes from Genesis, chapter four, verses one through thirteen. Y’all got that?”
I have my own Bible. It’s white leatherette. My granny gave it to me for my birthday, and I find the pages because I read really well. I’m proud of myself and I put my Bible on my lap and pretend I’m a grown lady. I wave at the air with the cardboard fan that has the picture of the blond Jesus and the lambs.
Elder Beasley reads to us about the story of Cain and Abel. How Adam knew his wife and then she conceived, and when Cain and Abel grew up, Cain killed his brother.
“Cain is a murderer, ain’t he? There ain’t no doubt about that. He is a low-down, nefarious criminal! He killed his own brother because he was jealous. He didn’t have faith enough to say, all right, now, God has not seen fit to praise him. That’s done made him mad, but he didn’t say that, maybe, he needed to pray and ask, ‘Lord, what do you want from me? Forget about my brother. What is it I can do? How can I get that favor you bestowed upon Abel? Am I doing something wrong? Help me, Lord. Give me just a little sign.’ But, y’all, Cain didn’t do none of that. No, he had to act a fool and take and kill his brother, and then he received his punishment.
“Some of y’all sitting up in here, you done had hard times. You struggling. You got bills to pay and no money. Some of y’all’s children, they done fell in love with the world and they have disappointed their people. Some of y’all are raising grandkids that those children done left you with. I ain’t calling no names. We don’t need to do all that. I’m just telling you I know what you going through. That’s what a pastor is for, but I’m not only your pastor. I’m your brother in Christ—”
The door to the church creaks open. Tony Crawford and his mama walk up the center aisle. When they pass me, I see his face swollen red and purple. One eye is closed, and Tony walks like he’s real tired. Everybody in the church starts whispering, but Elder Beasley tells us, Amen, let us pray.
* * *
I’m thirteen going on fourteen, and it’s a June morning. Mama and I have been up in the dark, preparing for the journey to Chicasetta. By the time she makes breakfast, the sun is flirting with the sky. My father arrives, home from working the night shift in the emergency room. But my sisters aren’t there in the kitchen, as Mama fixes plates for Daddy and me. Grits, eggs, and sausage biscuits. No coffee for me; I’m still too young.
She gives Daddy instructions. Don’t forget, there’s Tupperware in the deep freezer with directions on the lids. He has to defrost and then put everything in a pan before he puts it in the stove, otherwise the plastic will burn and smell bad, too.
He pats his thighs. When she settles on his lap, he kisses her cheek.
“Woman, you do know I’m grown.”
“I don’t want you to go hungry.”
“I need to lose weight anyway. I’m pretty sure I can miss a few meals.”
“But don’t be eating out every day. That’s not healthy. There’s plenty greens in that Tupperware.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll just miss you, woman.”
“How much? Tell me.”
They banter back and forth, but I want them to notice me. “Are you going to miss me, too?”
“What kind of question is that?” Daddy asks. “You are my precious baby girl! Of course I’ll miss you. Who’ll beat me in chess while you’re gone?”
“Anybody can beat you. You don’t know how to play.”
Mama laughs, and he tells her this is certainly her daughter, because I sure can cut a brother off at the knees. She hits his shoulder lightly, and he kisses her, only this time on the mouth. They start ignoring me again, talking in their low, “just us” tone.
This summer’s different: When we start our journey south, only Mama and me in the car. Lydia’s down south already. She’s going to be a junior at Routledge College, studying social work, and I’ve been so lonely in the City without her. Lydia’s the one who used to wake me up in the morning, kissing my face with loud smacks. Who congratulated me that my twin bed was dry, the year after the long-haired lady had stopped coming to my dreams. Lydia, who debated with me about which clothes I should choose. Who told me that I wore jeans too much and, when I protested that our cousin Malcolm wore jeans every day, the one who told me this was true but that Malcolm wasn’t as pretty as me. She’s my best friend, but she’s gone all the time now, except for summer.
Coco’s gone from the City, too. She’s headed to her third year at Yale. She was accepted early, and now she’s on the premed track. She called last week and told Mama she was taking the bus down to Chicasetta. Yes, it’s a three-day ride, but she wanted to see more of the country. And don’t worry about her ticket. She’d already saved up from her emergency fund.
It’s a strange ride in the station wagon. I don’t squeeze between Lydia and my mother. There’s no slapping at Coco’s hands as she reaches over the back seat and tugs my braids, and when we pull into the driveway at the farm, Dear Pearl’s not there on the porch. She’s gotten older. She doesn’t like to be out in the heat. Still, it’s a surprise not to see her waving her church fan, to see, instead, my sisters waiting for Mama and me up on the porch. That’s when Uncle Root rises from his chair, his gait spry; he doesn’t hop down the steps, as in past years. He takes his time, and when he kisses my cheek I notice I’m the same height as he is.
My playmates don’t come around anymore, either
. Last summer I started my period, and Mama told me I was getting to be a young lady. I couldn’t be running around with musty roughnecks smelling themselves. Mama said Baybay James and Boukie Crawford are a year older than me and boys that age want to get into mischief, but they weren’t doing that with her daughter.
Come day, go day, as the old folks say, and the hours are so quiet. I wear a beat-up hat while we pick weeds in the garden. My sisters are quiet. Coco is fascinated by the dirt, rubbing it between her fingers, and Lydia can’t focus on her weeds. She straightens and puts her hand to her forehead, shading her eyes. Like she’s looking for something in the distance.
My mother’s so happy, though. Happier than I’ve ever seen her, and every day, she climbs in the station wagon and goes visiting. The news she brings back isn’t that exciting. Somebody had a baby. Someone else is putting in a den in their garage. Or maybe, flowers have been planted in the front yard around those cement blocks propping up another family’s trailer. One evening, her eyes shine as if she’d been on an adventure. Like she’s been sipping a glass full of magic.
I’m sitting on the porch with useless hands: I don’t know how to sew quilt pieces. My stitches are too large, my granny says, so I should sit a spell. Enjoy the company, but I’m pouting. My sisters have gone to the American Legion, and I’m forbidden to go. I’m too young, they said. I wouldn’t even be let inside the Legion, let alone able to buy a drink.
Mama’s an expert sewer, but she only keeps the pieces of cloth in her lap. She rocks in her chair, smiling, and Miss Rose asks, what’s gotten into her? Had somebody took and gave her some money?
“No, ma’am, I’m just happy! I got three daughters and all of them doing well! I’ve done my worrying over them. They gave me a few gray hairs, but it looks like things will be all right. Only four more years and my baby will be done with high school.” She pats my leg, as if I need reminding that I’m her last child.
“Don’t shout till you get happy,” Aunt Pauline says. “Remember, the Devil always working.” She’s the pastor of her own church.
“That’s fine,” my mother says. “But I’m the one who raised these girls. Not Satan.”
The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois Page 4
