No headstone for Jonah Day. He waits under a blanket of morning glory vines tangled among the sweet peas. They know he’s there, ’cause they listen: Some of my brothers looked like me and some didn’t. But it wasn’t for me to ask Mama. In them times it was common to have a blue-eyed child playing next to his dark sister. And any daddies that may have been were gone long before I growed. But I was there for mine. I took pride in all my sons, but my baby boy had my heart. Guess ’cause he came right after the one I lost. So I gave him and his bride the house that Mama gave me. I passed on without seeing his children, but I knew they had to be girls. The seventh son of a seventh son is a special man.
Tears catch in the back of the pale woman’s throat as she brushes the dried weeds away from her mother’s headstone. Grace Samantha Day: I gave the first and only baby my grandmother’s name. Ophelia. I did it out of vengeance. Let this be another one, I told God, who could break a man’s heart. Didn’t women suffer enough? Eight months heavy with his child and he went off to chase horizons. I hoped he’d find them in hell. If I had known then what I was knowing all along, I woulda named her something else. Sapphira. My grandmother only softly broke a heart. My great-great-grandmother tore one wide open.
The young pale woman and the old brown woman look at each other over those mounds of time. The young hands touch the crumbling limestone as her inner mind remembers. A question from those inner eyes: the two graves that are missing? The breeze coming up from The Sound swirls the answer around her feet: Sapphira left by wind. Ophelia left by water.
As they round the bend by that old pine stump, the brown woman’s walking cane becomes a thing of wonder.
Remember this—
A wave over a patch of zinnias and the scarlet petals take flight.
And this—
Winged marigolds follow them into the air.
Listen—
A thump of the stick: morning glories start to sing.
The other place. Butterflies and hummingbirds. And the wisdom to draw them.
Ancient eyes, sad and tired: it’s time you knew. An old house with a big garden. And it’s seen its share of pain.
It’s getting toward dusk when Miranda and Cocoa make it back from the other place with their baskets loaded down. Abigail is glued to the porch rail, and Miranda can see she’s none too happy. You’d think I took her off to kill her, from that look on Abigail’s face, she thinks. A little gathering of lemon balm and cleaning off some old graves is all we done. But I’ll let Baby Girl tell her, she wouldn’t believe me no way.
“Nice of y’all to sneak off and let nobody know.”
“We wasn’t sneaking, Abigail. Didn’t you say you’d love to have a mess of fresh kale to mix in with your collards for our dinner tonight?”
Abigail fixes Miranda with a stare. “It’s too early for decent kale.”
“Not at the other place, Grandma.” Cocoa lifts up a full spread. “Look how big they’ve grown.”
Abigail takes the basket. “So that’s all y’all be doing—picking greens?”
“Yeah,” Cocoa says. “And I wanted to stop by the family plot to clean up a little. Grandma, it’s a shame the way you let that place run down.”
“I’ll be spending plenty of time there soon enough,” Abigail says before she goes into the house.
“Sooner than you think if you stay so evil,” Miranda calls behind her back.
“I wonder what’s bothering her?”
“Nothing, child,” Miranda says. “Nothing at all. Now give me that there balm. I’ll strip the leaves and start up some cologne to take back with you.”
“Mama Day, I still have gallons of lavender water.”
“Yeah, but it’s good to change up every now and then—keep the man interested. And I’ll show you how to take a few fresh leaves and make up a nice female wash. It’ll have your insides smelling like lemons.” She pauses for a moment. “And it don’t taste bad, either.”
Cocoa turns two shades deeper. “Oh, so I can put it in his salads?”
Miranda shrugs. “If you wanna waste good lemon balm.”
A kinda muggy evening. Another ounce of moisture and the air would turn to fog; the crickets and marsh frogs sound bloated and far off. But the mosquitoes are humming low, so Abigail’s got two piles of wood, sprinkled with sweet fern, burning at the foot of the porch to let them sit in peace. Miranda’s brought a truce by praising Abigail’s potato pies though the crust is still glued to the roof of her mouth. Better to let that afternoon rest. We’re like two peas in a pod, but we’re two peas still the same.
The Duvalls’ old green Chevy pulls up with Ambush driving. They can’t make out the other men sitting in the car.
“Evening, Mama Day. Evening, Miss Abigail.”
“Evening, Ambush. What brings you here?” Abigail asks.
“Ain’t Cocoa told you? Muddy Waters is playing beyond the bridge, and we’re all going to hear him.”
“All who?” Miranda gets up and peers through the smoke.
“All us.” Dr. Buzzard sticks his head out the back window and grins. “Muddy can pick—it’s gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight.” The rooster feathers on his hat just wiggling. “I even got my buddy to come along.”
“Evennning, everryboddy.” Junior Lee slurs his words, drunk or sober. He ain’t famous for putting too much effort in nothing, least of all his appearance. More the pity, ’cause he could be a handsome man. Honey-colored skin and eyes. But that softness done seeped into his backbone, making him slouch when he could sit, shuffle when he could walk. Ruby keeps his closet full of new clothes since their wedding, but they never hang right on him. Jackets droop on his shoulders, belts can’t seem to buckle his pants in place. And them alligator shoes want to melt off his feet.
“Junior Lee, is that you?” Abigail calls out. “You ain’t hiding from Ruby is you, slouched down in the car that way?”
“She’s my wiiife, not my jaillerr.” The men in the car laugh.
“And how is your wife, Ambush?” Miranda puts her hands on her hips. “While you gallivanting to jukes beyond the bridge?”
“She was supposed to come, Mama Day. But she said the night air wouldn’t be good for the baby. So she’s staying in to watch TV with my mama.”
“This time of year, night air and day air is all the same,” Miranda says.
“Try telling her that.” Ambush shakes his head. “But she don’t mind me coming out to have a little fun.”
Dr. Buzzard draws his mouth down. “Why you ain’t asked me about my wife?”
“Don’t start with me, Buzzard.” Miranda narrows her eyes. “They couldn’t marry you off in a zoo. And a man your age shouldn’t be all up under these young people no way. You need to be home praying—tomorrow is Sunday.”
“I come along as chaperon for Cocoa.”
“Well, she won’t be needing your services tonight. She’s got a sick headache and she’s gonna stay in.”
“Is she bad, Mama Day?” Ambush starts to get out the car.
“No, she ain’t too bad. Y’all go on and enjoy yourselves.”
Abigail’s biting down on her bottom lip and frowning as they drive away. She starts patting her left thigh like she does when she gets real nervous.
“I don’t wanna be here for these fireworks. You had no call to do that, Miranda.”
“If it had only been Ambush and Buzzard, I woulda just sat here and fussed. But Junior Lee was in that car.”
“They was only going to listen to music.”
“And May Ellen was only digging oysters with him in full daylight. We buried her last month, Abigail.”
“You starting up with that again? Ruby ain’t did nothing to that child.”
“You weren’t there, I was.”
“You were there to nurse May Ellen. But you saw Ruby poison her, too?”
“I ain’t said that.”
“Then what are you saying? You, of all people, should know better. This hoodoo mess is just tha
t—mess.”
“I know it is.” Miranda stares into the smoky fire. “I also know what trouble looks like when I see it. And I ain’t in the mood to tangle with Ruby.”
“Well, now you’re gonna have to face Baby Girl. And my nerves can’t take a lot of shouting.”
“Then you better stay out here.”
Cocoa is sitting on the edge of her bed, strapping on a pair of high-heel sandals. She’s got silver barrettes pinned up in her hair to match the silver strings on her halter dress. It’s too hot for stockings, so she’s shaved and creamed her legs with a little rose glycerine.
“You ain’t mentioned at dinner that you were going out,” Miranda says, watching her from the doorway.
“Because I didn’t want to start this fight too early.” She reaches for her other shoe. “I guess Ambush is already out there.”
“You think it’s proper for a married woman to be sitting up all night, drinking and smoking in jukes with other men?”
“No, I don’t. But I grew up with Ambush—he’s the closest thing I have to a brother. And neither of us drinks or smokes.”
“Buzzard drinks plenty.”
“Dr. Buzzard is always drunk. So if I had to stay away from him because of that, I would’ve stayed away all my life.”
“And Junior Lee …”
“Junior Lee? I thought you were talking about men. Listen, I’m going out.”
“No respect for your own self, I’d think you’d have a little for Bernice—carousing with her husband and she’s in the family way.”
“Bernice gave me her ticket! And because she’s carrying on like she’s having fifty babies, my world doesn’t have to stop.”
“Always been selfish. Me and your grandma see you once a year and you can’t spend two minutes with us.”
“You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel now, Mama Day. Not when I’ve been around here all week, beating rugs, cleaning out chicken coops. Look at the scratches on my hands from those tomato vines. It’s Saturday night and it’s time for a little fun.”
“Well, your husband got himself a bargain.”
Cocoa gets up and snatches her bag off the dresser. “If George was here and he didn’t want to go, he wouldn’t be acting like you. You’re not going to make me feel guilty, so forget it. I’m going to hear Muddy Waters.”
Miranda blocks the door. “If you’re gonna hear Muddy Waters, you’ll have to walk over water to do it—your ride’s gone.”
The air turns electric between them two. Both set of lips pressed tight as iron lids. Cocoa opens hers first, slow and deadly.
“I’m not going to ask you if you really did that, because you did. You have always been an overbearing and domineering old woman. But I am not a child anymore—do you hear me? I am not a child. I’ll pack my things and leave tomorrow. If I have to be treated this way, I’ll never set foot on this damn island again until it’s time to come to your funeral!”
She flings her bag across the dresser, scattering bottles and combs every which a way. The vase of wildflowers smashes into the mirror, a jagged crack webs out from the corner.
“Better my funeral than yours.” Miranda slams the door without another word.
The wood fire outside is burning down as the smoke hangs in the heavy air. It swirls up slowly from the glowing embers and spreads out, grayish fingers blocking out the road before disappearing into the edges of darkness. One moment she wasn’t there. One moment she was. The smoke clears on the silent figure, staring up at the porch from the gate. A mountain. Huge and still. But the voice could be a light breeze, whispering from its summit. “Junior Lee left with Ambush. The car stopped down here.”
Two small slits catch the fading light from the fire. Seems like a cat’s eyes floating in the night.
“They went on, Ruby.” Miranda leans forward in the darkness. “Half an hour ago.”
“Come on up and sit a spell,” Abigail offers.
A whisper. “The car stopped down here.”
Miranda leans way back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and heaves a deep sigh. A jealous woman. Creeping through the woods, picking up nightshade and gathering castor beans. Coming to the edge of the other place, the full moon shining on twisted handfuls of snakeroot. May Ellen’s twisted body. Ain’t no hoodoo anywhere as powerful as hate. Don’t make me tangle with you, Ruby, she thinks deep into the smoke. I brought you into this world.
“I ain’t looking for trouble,” Ruby answers as the smoke blows over her face. “But the car stopped down here.”
“Cocoa’s in the house,” Miranda says. “She’s in the house, Ruby.”
A long silence. The mountain turns.
Abigail stares at Ruby’s back until the night swallows her up. “Now, if that ain’t the strangest thing.”
Miranda can hardly hear her through the pounding in her head. “I told you, Ruby is a strange woman.” She brings her fingers up to massage her temples. But the inside of her head keeps raging. It feels like water and wind.
“You all right, Miranda?”
“Yeah, I’m tired, that’s all. And that row with Baby Girl didn’t help none. You know that heifer called me overbearing and domineering.”
Abigail gets up behind her chair to massage her temples.
“That feels good, Abby. Overbearing and domineering—me.”
“She ain’t meant it.”
“Said she was packing her suitcases tomorrow.”
“She ain’t meant that, either.”
“And wasn’t coming back till my funeral.”
Abigail’s soft laughter melts into the night air. The gentle pressure of her fingers working down into the bone of Miranda’s skull. The waters and wind slowly hush.
“Well, if you could manage that by next August, she won’t have to explain why she’s back home then.”
Time is a funny thing. I was always puzzled with the way a single day could stretch itself out to the point of eternity in your mind, all the while years melted down into the fraction of a second. The clocks and calendars we had designed were incredibly crude attempts to order our reality—nearing the close of the twentieth century, and we were still slavishly tied to the cycles of the sun and the moon. All of those numbers were reassuring, but they were hardly real. Reality was the unshaven face in my mirror, the sound of your running water in the coffee pot, and where was the calendar to explain that when I woke up yesterday—yes, yesterday—it was the first time and now it was the fifteen hundredth? We’d invented nothing, had yet to conceive of anything, that could chart the mental passage of time. Looking in that mirror and hearing you in the kitchen, I could truthfully say, I’ve been with her all my life and I’ll be with her for the rest of my life. That instant I could say that, and the next and the next. The life without you resided only in my memory, and the more time we built up, the more distant that memory would become. I understood then how couples lasted forty, fifty years. Get through the eternity of the longest day and you’ve gotten through them all. And we had made it through with a silent consensus that even our worst days were manageable enough to be endured forever. With that as the bottom line, our constant tug-of-wars went on. It was all about change, wasn’t it? Inevitable change. I know I resisted it much more than you to wake up one morning and wonder what all the fuss was about. My house had become our home. And after four years “our” things were starting to outnumber what had been your things and my things.
And slowly we found ourselves wrestling within a whole new set of horizons. Diets. A ceramic mortar and pestle suddenly appeared in the cabinet. And your concoctions of parsley, thyme, basil, sage, and tarragon tasted far better than my regular salt substitutes. But I hated chives—why did you insist upon putting chives in that mixture? A touch of mint gave the same results. I was always a better cook than you, so it was grated parsnips instead of carrots to sweeten tomato sauce. Two egg whites alone cut down my cholesterol much more than adding a whole egg with little difference to the texture of a cake.
If I had taken time to think about it, I would have laughed. We’d be squared off at both ends of the kitchen, and since when had I bothered with those things at all? Since you had started growing fresh herbs on the windowsill and in the back yard. Since your letters from Willow Springs, filled with advice about “keeping that boy’s heart ticking.”
The video cassette recorder. If you used up all the spare tapes on your inane soap operas while you were in class, how was I going to record the games while we were at Selma’s for dinner? She insisted on giving these things on Monday nights. You insisted on us going. So keep your hands off the tapes. And since when had I given up football? Since never. But a recorded game once a month or so wouldn’t kill me. And neither did spending Thanksgiving with you, since our anniversary always fell around the Super Bowl and you spent it alone. Still only two of us, but we were a family. And Thanksgiving was a family day. I made it very special for us: breakfast in bed for you, the afternoon game in bed for me, and then both of us in bed before we’d get up and cook dinner. We’d talk about the number of children we were going to have one day at the table with us—my figure always higher than yours. Let’s trade places, I’d offer. I’ll gladly stay home and have four babies if you promise to go out break your back for me. You’ve got a deal, you’d nod.
But that morning when we left the house you were going to make good on another deal we had made. I had supported you while you got your history degree and so I could decide how to celebrate your graduation. We both knew what I wanted. It was always windy in the middle of the George Washington Bridge. I thought about the first time I’d been up there with you, the look of sheer wonder on the face I could read so well now. The lean body that held no more secrets bent over the railing. I liked that knowing which could only deepen as we went on together. A comfortable form of possessiveness. Only I owned the codes to a certain turn of her head, a slight narrowing of her eyes, the varying textures of her silences. We needed words less and less as time went on. Why, if we had eternity, I thought, looking at all that space above and beneath us, we’d find ourselves in a place where we’d need no words at all.
Mama Day Page 19
