But Sage couldn’t settle herself down. She missed her usual colors, the yellows and oranges and shades of peach that were her mother, her grandmother. And even though being with Verdi was usually as good as a hand-dipped butter-brickle ice-cream cone, she didn’t like the way Verdi was right now. Didn’t like the sharpness of the silver blue that was like lightning pokes to her eyes. Didn’t like the way Verdi wasn’t grinning at her the way she usually did when she met her face, didn’t like how Verdi kept looking past her to some monster on the wall, not even taking her face in her hands to help her with her sounds. And there were too many sounds getting stuck in her mouth. Too many for her to swallow the way she usually did because she couldn’t tie them together in her mouth to make a word, too many to even pick through with her tongue to give a color to. So she ran through Verdi’s house to give herself relief, un-strung the videotapes from their reels, marked up her favorite books with black Crayola crayons, pulled out her hair again and again and again because it was too tight against her scalp, didn’t Verdi know that it was tight, that she needed for her to take her jaw in her hands and help her make her sounds, that she wanted for her to sit next to her on the couch and put her arm around her while they watched the Reading Rainbow tape so the silvery blues could settle down? But all Verdi was doing was dialing the phone again, and staring out the window and asking Sage over and over what had gotten into her.
Sage’s bedtime came none to soon for Verdi, especially the way she’d transformed herself into the devil’s child. And the worse Sage acted, the more Verdi felt helpless. So by the time she’d run Sage’s bathwater, and put her in the tub, and came back in to wash her back and Sage threw a cup of water in her face, Verdi started to cry. She threatened to spank Sage then. Told her to get in that bed and not get out of it until morning. Then she went downstairs and poured herself a flute of sparkling cider, put on some Louis Armstrong, and tried Johnson’s number one more time.
This time he answered and the sound of his voice went straight to her heart and she couldn’t even talk.
“Hello, hello,” he said.
And all she could do was let out a solitary sob.
“Verdi? Verdi? Is that you? My God, Verdi. Is it about Posie? How’s Posie?”
“Not Posie, me. I’m the one dying here.”
“God, baby, Verdi—”
“Johnson, I need you.”
“You don’t need me.”
“Rowe’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes gone. He left. He knows, he knows about you and me.”
“Did you tell him or he found out on his own?”
“He found out on his own.”
“Did you ask him to leave or did he just leave?”
“He just left.”
Silence. “I’m leaving, baby. Tomorrow morning.”
“God, Johnson, please, please don’t make me beg.”
“Don’t beg, Verdi, this is just the way it has to be.”
“Why, because it can’t be on your terms?”
“No, because it wasn’t your decision. Because you’re just allowing things to happen for you, because that’s how you live, just having things done to you, because last night you could have made the decision to leave him, with some faith, Verdi, that you would get the strength you need, you’re the one who was raised in church, I should be the last person telling you that—that you’ve been caught in an idolatrous relationship all this time giving some old motherfucker power over you that he never had.”
“Johnson, please—”
“You know I’ll always love you.”
“John—”
“I’ll call you sometime when it doesn’t hurt so much to hear your voice—”
She was listening then to dead air so loud it was deafening as it pushed through the phone, filled the room, obliterating the sound of Louis’s trumpet; the ticking of the pewter mantel clock; her shallow breathing; her good reasoning that tried to tell her to just go to bed, curl up next to Sage, everything looks better cast under a morning sun; hope, this dead air even drowned out the sound of her hope; until there was nothing left for her to hear except for that sound that she’d managed to snuff out over the past twenty years, and now there was no Rowe to put his hands over her ears, and the dead air opened up and made like a megaphone and amplified that sound that was always the last sound she’d hear after the sterile point of the metal had punctured her flawless skin and just before the silver pings started firing in her brain, she’d make a sucking sound, drawing her breath sharply as if it would be the last breath she’d take, that sound was always the prelude to her heaven dripping in her brain, or was it her hell, could hell be as magnificent as that rush, or was it the fusion of the two rolling around like a whirlpool that caused that ecstasy, doing it to her, isn’t that what Johnson said, she always allowed things to be done to her. Do it to me, she said as she sank deeper in the couch, and realizing what she said, she jumped up, covered her ears, shouted no, no, hell no. But it was too late. That sound of that last sharp breath was all in her ear, like a kiss, whispering, like sound into form now, throbbing, gyrating. The sound had taken hold, amoeba-like reproduced itself, had sprouted a forest by now, too much for her to tame, and wasn’t it right upstairs in the nightstand drawer, and wasn’t Sage asleep, and just this one more time, awl yeah, to get her through this night, wasn’t this the worst night, Rowe gone, Johnson leaving, her aunt Posie still might die? Yeah. She blossomed with unrestraint then and headed for the stairs.
Twenty-two
The bedroom reverberated with Sage’s nighttime breaths and the air in here was as soft as velvet. Verdi trod quickly through the softness, her harsh breaths almost gasps now, a stark contrast to the innocence pervading the room. She focused only on the corner of the room as the miniature touch lamp illuminated the nightstand, the brass drawer pulls. She couldn’t allow her eyes to fall on Sage’s back, her arm that curved under her head, the side of her face. Her Sage whom she thought she could love no more even if she’d birthed her herself, her sister’s child—no, no, her cousin’s child. She shook her head telling herself to get a grip, even as a silhouette of her father’s broken face came at her in this darkened room, the way his face had appeared after he’d finished the story about the roads. Her cousin’s child. She said it with finality. Stopped then and held her breath while Sage shifted in her sleep and tossed and turned to the other side. This was such a big-ass room, she thought as she started walking again. Too big to be a bedroom. Why did she even allow Rowe to talk her into making this a bedroom? This was a reception room, Rowe. She said his name out loud, startled the darkness that rippled with the sound of his name, as if this room had already forgotten Rowe, how long would it take for her to forget him? she asked herself as she was at the nightstand now, her hand wrapped around the hard, cold brass pull that could be the handle to a steel-encased coffin. She nudged the drawer open and the sound of wood against wood as the drawer extended out was like a burst of thunder in her ear. And then even the thunderburst dissolved and fizzled into the velvet blackness as her eye found the plastic bag, the substance and the works he’d called it, oh God, how sweet, how sweet of him to do this for her, he’d always been so good to her she thought as she fought back tears and put her hand around the bag as if she were reaching through a flame. She ran into her bathroom then with all power in her hand. She was doing it again, perverting a hymn. She was hell-bound anyhow, she thought now, read her Bible every morning, said her prayers every night, still going straight to hell because Johnson was right, she had no faith. No faith. Johnson, Johnson. She was crying now, in her bathroom, the door pushed shut, running water to cover up the sound of her cries so that her cries wouldn’t wake Sage, wishing that she’d been exposed twenty years ago the way Johnson had been exposed, because a lie suppressed can never come back as the truth, comes back like this, she thought, like a junkie leaning over her bathroom counter getting ready to cook. “Oh shit, somebody help me,” she whispered as she
called on the name of Johnson, now Rowe, now her daddy, always some man taking care of her, saving her from herself, and they never could, no wizards, no white-armored knights, she thought as she cooked it up in a spoon, to liquefy its contents to make it ready for her arm, how generous of him to put it all in this plastic bag. She turned the water off and reached for her white chenille robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, snatched the belt through the loops then wrapped the belt, tighter, tighter, wrapped it around her arm.
Twenty-three
Sage woke all at once with the sensation that a bomb was about to explode in her mouth. As if all the sounds she was so accustomed to holding in her mouth had come together and were now swinging back and forth like a wrecking ball. She needed Verdi. Needed for her to help with her sounds so that they could settle back down in her mouth. She covered her face with the down comforter and breathed gasping breaths because she was afraid of the feeling in her mouth. She wanted to get out of the bed and go look for Verdi but Verdi had seemed so mean all that day and especially when she’d put her to bed and told her to be still, don’t dare move, she’d spank her if she got up out of that bed. And the air around Verdi had mixed with even more startling colors like black and turquoise and silver that fought with each other and screeched and Sage had put her hands to her ears and made herself go fast asleep as soon as Verdi left the room.
But now she was wide-awake in Verdi’s bedroom with this new sensation that was so hard in her mouth. She thought that if she could give it a color then maybe it wouldn’t frighten her so. But this feeling had no color, like the sound she could hear in Verdi’s bathroom now had no color. A slapping sound that reminded her of the sound described by the boy who’d had to leave her school because he’d started a fire at his house, but while he went to her school once told Sage how he’d whipped his pet frog to death. “I just slapped hin and slapped hin till hin eyes almost jumped outta hin head, and hin tongue was all bloody and just hanging out,” and then he’d slapped his own skin imitating the sound he’d made. And Sage had been so horrified and mesmerized at the same time and now she associated that slapping sound with death, and despite what Verdi said she jumped out of the bed.
Verdi was already tied up, had one end of the chenille belt in her mouth to tighten it, she’d never shot herself up before, Johnson had always been there to do this part so it was taking her a long time and she was concentrating and sweating as she rubbed her finger up and down her vein and slapped at her arm to make a good vein emerge. She was so fixated on finding the right vein that she didn’t hear the door creak open, didn’t see Sage standing there, her head tilted, looking at Verdi as if she’d just stumbled upon a fascinating oddity. Didn’t even hear Sage as she kicked the door to get Verdi’s attention to try to let her know that a wrecking ball was swinging in her mouth. Nor did she hear her when she pushed the ball out, finally and there was a great explosion in her mouth, her brain and she let it out, the accumulation of sounds just burst then.
“Veerrdi,” Sage said in a husky voice that should come maybe from an adolescent boy who’s trying to sound grown.
And maybe if Verdi had already shot up once or twice in the recent past, and had reacquainted her physiology with the rush, and the nod, she would have yelled at Sage to get the fuck out; unable to accept any barrier between this point and her high, she would have shoved Sage out of the bathroom and locked the door. But she hadn’t done it yet, it had been twenty years since she’d tasted this brand of heaven and hell. So since she traced her vein now with a level of forgetfulness about how good and bad it could be, she looked up at Sage, in amazement, her heart stopped at what she thought she heard. She ran to Sage with her arm still tied. Grabbed her and stooped to her level, her eyes spilling out tears she said, “Sage, do that again, please do that again for Verdi.”
And Sage looked at Verdi and suddenly this new voice felt less frightening with Verdi standing there, her hands gently squeezing the tops of her arms, it seemed to Sage now that maybe this voice could feel as natural as the laughter that always reverberated through her head. She took in a deep breath of air like Verdi had been teaching her to do, she pushed her lower lip slightly under her two front teeth, she curled the front of her tongue, she pulled her breath up from her stomach, from her bowel even she wanted to please Verdi so. “Verdi,” she said again. “Verdi, Verdi, Verdi.” And then she could barely hear her own voice as Verdi pulled her against her and cried in her ear, “Thank You, Jesus! Thank You, Lord! Sage! Sage! Thank you, thank you, Sage.”
Twenty-four
Verdi slept like a lamb with Sage curled up against her. Didn’t realize until this morning how disruptive to her sleep Rowe’s raucous snoring had been through the years. And now she woke with an appetite too. Felt like a real breakfast, like the kind Rowe railed against always opting instead for bran flakes and fruit. But this morning she was picturing pancakes with strawberries, scrambled eggs with cheese, hot and spicy sausage links, baked cut-up red potatoes sprinkled with garlic and pepper, a little broccoli and sugar snap peas swished in a little olive oil for garnish, nectar of peach juice. She was salivating at the thought. When had she ever cooked like that? She’d never cooked like that. Kitt cooked like that. But she’d watched Kitt do it for enough years.
She jumped out of bed wound up, ebullient. Sage had talked and she was cooking breakfast. Went into her bathroom not at all diminished by the white chenille belt hanging from the doorknob evoking the memory of what she’d almost done. She hadn’t. Had not. No matter how close she’d come, she’d been, she’d been, give me a word, she laughed out loud. She’d been delivered. Delivered. She couldn’t wait to teach Sage that word. Started to wake her right then to begin working on her D s. No, that baby should rest, how hard she’d had to work to say her name like that, no wonder she’d been so incorrigible the day before, she was wild because she was bursting, on the verge.
She ran through the house, half skipping, half jumping, grabbed the phone, dialed Kitt’s number, said, “How’s Aunt Posie, even though I know she’s out of the woods.”
Kitt answered in her sleepy voice. “She was asking for her pink lacy lounging set when I left from down there last night. What you do, call down to the hospital?”
“No, girl, I just feel it in my bones, girl. Get your butt up and come on and have some breakfast with me and Sage.”
“Who’s cooking? I know you not trying to cook for my chile, I know you better just pour her a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Furthermore, what’s this Aunt Hortense said that Uncle Leroy said that Rowe left from out of there in the middle of the night?”
“He did.”
“Oh no, found out?”
“Yeah, but I’m okay, Kitt. I’m honestly okay.”
“Oh, poor Verdi, I was gonna call you, but I was—you know, girl, I was a little umhum, tangled up.” Kitt was whispering now. “So if I do come down there for breakfast, you got to set an extra plate.”
“No! No! Your big-backed client, Bruce?” Verdi was laughing, shouting, gasping. “Don’t tell me you was smelling butter last night.”
“Girlfriend, I smelled it, I tasted it, I gobbled it up, I did about everything you could possibly do with some butter before it melts into cream.”
“Mnh, mnh, mnh,” Verdi said between howls, “Aunt Posie’s gonna say she should have had a heart attack long time ago if that’s what it took for you to—how should I say it? Go spooning?”
They laughed into each other’s ears and Verdi said, “Come on, get up, get dressed, I got a surprise for you that I promise will surpass your last night.”
“Can’t imagine what can surpass last night, but if you say that you’re cooking, set our places, we’re coming, even though I had promised Leanne and Hawkins a home-cooked once Mama was doing better—”
“Bring them, too, come on, and anybody else you promised a meal, you’re always cooking, my turn.”
“I mean—you’re sure Rowe won’t—”
“He won’t be her
e, Kitt, I’m sure,” Verdi said as she clamped her mouth so she wouldn’t cry, suddenly overcome all over again with a lumpy batter of emotions about Rowe, about Johnson, and now Sage had talked and she wanted to cry about that too. “Hurry,” she said, and hung up the phone.
She made up a list then of what she’d need from the store. Got Sage up and dressed and they made a game of pulling and pushing the shopping cart the two blocks to the store and back. And Sage was her slice of sunshine again, smiling, cooperative, hugging Verdi every chance she got. Not talking though, so far this morning she hadn’t repeated her name.
And Verdi got busy stirring up pancake mix and cracking eggs and slicing fruit, and peering over directions for heating the brown-’n-serve sausage, and when Sage jumped up from the window seat where she’d been occupied with her crayons and construction paper, and started twirling and laughing, Verdi knew Kitt was here. And not only Kitt, when she and Sage ran out onto the porch to greet Kitt they watched her parents pull up in the car right behind the one Kitt and Bruce and Leanne and Hawkins were in.
“Saw them when I ran into the hospital to take Mama her lounging set,” Kitt said as she smooched Verdi’s cheek and pressed Sage’s head to her stomach. “Your daddy said he knew there was a reason they left church right after the seven forty-five service, so that he could witness this miracle of you preparing a meal.”
“Miracles jumping out all over this place,” Verdi said as she shook Bruce’s hand, welcomed him to her home, hugged Leanne and Hawkins then greeted her parents, fingered her mother’s hat that was tilted almost to her nose, lifted the brim, saw her eyes pushing out fresh tears.
Blues Dancing Page 29
