Lynn grabbed my arm. “It wasn’t like that. We just thought—”
“You didn’t think at all. Y’all never do.” I pushed the door open and waited while they left the store, ignoring my aunt’s pleading eyes. With my back to them, I turned the lock, determined not to let them see my tears.
“For this I have Jesus,” I whispered to myself.
Chapter Eleven
You can tell a lot about a person from their furniture. Mama said that. Who could argue with a thirty-year-old living room set? I’d reupholstered our living room set, but it was all still there, even the three-leaf table everyone used to crowd around on Sunday afternoons after church, when the real service started. When people cried into their coleslaw and huddled in clumps of prayer over ribs and potato salad. It was our living room where secrets were whispered, babies announced, trouble exposed.
The way our pastor led the morning service, Daddy had once served as our dinnertime priest. It was during these hours of the week that he had shined—cooking hush puppies crispy and sweet, fried fish and cheese grits, his tribute to the Georgia he’d left behind at age fifteen. Mama would sit beside him and peel potatoes, her bitterness draining away with each slice. Then somehow, as if by magic, a laugh would ring out of her mouth, followed by the low rumbling of Daddy’s trash-talking voice.
“Don’t make me have to stop cooking and come over there and get some sugar from you.” When he talked like that it was better than hummingbird cake. Sweet. Airy. And Mama ate it right up, all the while playing hard-to-get.
“Don’t you come over here. You’re burning that food as it is….”
I would stop just short of the kitchen, soaking in their once-a-week love ritual of bartered kisses and flirty words. “Honey,” he’d call her. “Baby,” she’d answered. “Sweetheart.” Daddy usually whispered that one. All those nicknames choked out by everyday life. For me, it tasted better than the food, their love talk. And considering the offered fare, that was saying a lot.
The doorbell would start singing then, each note filling our home with friends and family. Even my father’s sister, Aunt Cheryl, and her horrid daughters would come, though they’d never speak to us on the street during the week. Stuck-up though they were, nobody with good sense could turn down Daddy’s fish. And those ribs? I get dizzy just thinking about them.
Right before we’d line up with our plates, there would come a knock at the door. Adrian’s mother. She said only strangers rang the bell. She always tumbled in like a bouquet of daisies, laughing and swaying with those spidery lashes spilling onto her cheeks. When we were small, Jordan swore they were fake. I dared him to prove it. He tried to pull them off and almost blinded the woman. Took him months to look her way again.
I always gawked at her when she came in, knowing I’d get a licking for it later. I couldn’t help myself though. Her face called to me and so I went, looking over every inch of it, memorizing every pore, wondering how someone so perfect-looking could walk around like normal people and let barbeque sauce drip on her dress. Even after I realized she wasn’t perfect, I couldn’t stop looking at her. Her smile was like a slow song after a long day. It just hit the spot.
Adrian didn’t mind me looking at his mother. He was used to people staring. She wasn’t. She’d always turn to me and say, “Baby, is my slip showing?” Adrian was proud of her beauty because it meant so much to me.
I was proud, too. Of Daddy, who never stared at Adrian’s mother like all the other men. It would have been easy and nobody would have thought bad of him for it—Mama stared at her, too—but he kept his eyes glued on Mama until the last dish was washed and the last chair emptied. Only when we took the middle leaf out of the table and shoved it back to its normal size, did his heart scamper away from us.
I sometimes wondered if Daddy didn’t stick around because of those Sundays, if he didn’t swallow each Sabbath evening like a pill, gulping every second, hoping that some morsel of that love would protect him from the war to be fought in the same kitchen over the next week. If Jordan hadn’t left, the Sundays may have kept things going. Tided us all over with a little hope.
But Jordan did leave, and when he did, Mama took the middle leaf out of the table and covered it with a white plastic cloth and stuffed letters under it. Letters marked “Return to Sender.” I’d tied them all up and set them in a box in case Jericho ever wanted them. Until today, the table had graced my foyer, cherry wood gleaming under a burgundy linen cloth and mats of forest green. I never found the middle leaf. That Daddy had known where it was all along had never occurred to me.
Until now.
The scent of hot fish caught me on the stairs. I’d stopped at first, my heart galloping, trying to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. The coconut oil Daddy used to cook it—his secret ingredient—floated into the hall and lingered around my head. I stepped cautiously to my door. Laughter and music greeted me from the other side.
He didn’t. Surely not.
Before I could turn the knob, the door swung open. Jordan’s girlfriend, whatever her name was, opened the door. “It’s her!” she squealed, her makeup bunching up into a blur of beiges, greens and blues.
“Yes, it’s me. At my own house. What a surprise,” I mumbled.
Licking his fingers, Jordan appeared behind MissTammy Faye. “Surprise!” he shouted as I stumbled into the foyer. The spot where the leaf table used to be, waiting quietly, burdened with flowers, too afraid to remember what wonders it had once beheld, was now bare. The old table, bold and full of memories adorned the living room. All twelve original chairs circled the oval of cherry wood.
I swallowed hard and forced my feet toward the smell of hush puppies rolling in a vat of olive oil, taken from my soap supplies, no doubt. He’d probably borrowed the coconut oil, too. I ignored Trevor and Dahlia, intertwined on the couch. My couch.
It’s her house, too. Let it go.
Sure she’d grown up here, but I’d redone the place, helped Mom buy it from the co-op. And here Daddy had gone and done this? Just as I was about to melt down, my niece bounded out of the bathroom with those antenna pigtails and Trevor’s chocolate-drop eyes. She was beautiful, like Adrian’s mother. I could hardly take my eyes off her.
The little girl matched my steps and took my hand. “Hey,” is all she said, as if she’d been waiting for me.
“Hey yourself.” I saddled her on my hip—though I hadn’t planned on it—and considered how I’d fix her hair so that gravity could do its work. We shuffled past Rochelle and her driver friend. I tried to smile, but I’m sure it came out more like one of those Gary Payton smirks from the NBA finals. You know, the “How you doing? Well, I hope you’re well because I’m about to kick your behind” look? That one.
Sierra clung to my neck. “You have a pretty house,” she said. “It’s happy.”
Happy? My house? What kind of life was this child living? “Thank you. You have pretty hair. Will you let me do it for you?”
We’d reached the kitchen now and were leaning up against the door frame, watching as Adrian dropped the balls of cornmeal into the oil and my father fished them out. At the sight of them together, I took a sharp breath.
If my niece noticed my alarm, she didn’t show it.
“Would you do my hair?” she whispered. “Mommy makes it scary. I want happy hair. Like this house.”
A tear trailed my cheek and wet her braid, standing on end like a curly exclamation point. She felt my tears. I knew because she squeezed me tighter, but she didn’t say a word. I cried harder, sorry that someone so young was so accustomed to being cried on. “I’ll make your hair as happy as I can,” I said in a creaking voice.
She nodded and the hush puppy team turned at the sound of my voice. Adrian smiled. Daddy turned away.
“So what’s all this about?” I reached for a hush puppy and blew on it before handing it to Sierra. From another heaping plate of fried fish fillets, catfish from the looks of it, I pinched off a piece.
Daddy sho
ved the mustard down the counter. “This is about family. About the family we were and the family we can still be. It ain’t nothing easy, but good food can make it go down a whole lot better.”
“Yum-mo,” Sierra said, her face bright as the sun. “Does it have twansfat? I can’t eat that.”
All three of us paused and stared at the little girl. Dahlia surely hadn’t changed. “No transfats, baby. Here.” I blew off another and turned back to Daddy. “But did you have to do it here? Bring them…here?”
Adrian straightened, rolling a grainy ball between his palms. Another smile. “Chill,” he mouthed without making a sound.
He’d been away far too long. For me, this was chill, as chill as I could be on a day I’d come home and found the whole block partying in my living room. I stared at the layout—paper plates, cups, condiments, food. At least they hadn’t used any of my stuff.
Watching my expression, Daddy let out a hearty laugh. “No, I didn’t use nothing of yours besides the oil. Wasn’t nothing to use. No wonder you so evil, living on old cereal.”
More like the drive-thru. The cereal was just for Monday mornings when I started my “program” for the nth time only to quit by the end of the day. I decided not to explain.
“As for the ‘them,’ where else could I bring ’em? You ain’t paid my rent.” He tasted a hush puppy and licked his lips.
The heel of my free hand smacked my forehead. Dad’s rent. Hadn’t I paid that? I’d called…. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
Daddy shrugged. “Sorry? Don’t be. I’m a grown man. It’s about time I started acting like one again.”
Wow. “Where are you staying?”
His eyes bore into me. “With my son.”
Jordan? Talk about two who deserved each other. How long would that arrangement last? I clamped my mouth shut.
He frowned and motioned to Adrian. “Put another egg in that, son.” He took another bite. “And a splash of milk.” Nodding as if agreeing with himself, he turned back to me. “What was I saying?”
Sierra looked up from licking every finger. “Had to bring ’em here.”
Daddy wiped his hands on his apron and kissed her chubby cheek. “That’s right, baby. Thank you.”
She smiled at me and whispered, “He’s nice. My gwanpa.” I nodded in agreement. No sense confusing her by explaining that he was my Daddy, too. When I’d finally figured out that my grandmother was my mother’s mother, I had a headache for days. I was four, but they told the story forever. I hoped Daddy wouldn’t make the connection and recite the tale now.
He opened the oven and checked something delicious-smelling but blocked my view so I couldn’t see. I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to see. I could smell. Carrots, raisins, butter, eggs…Hummingbird cake. My favorite.
“Stop peeking, girl. Anyway, the child is right. I had to bring them here. You had the table.”
My eye started leaking again, remembering Mama standing here, laughing and teasing as they took the platters out to sit them on the table. “You knew where the middle leaf was? I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
Daddy scowled a little. Well, he tried anyway. “You never asked me. It was in the attic where Nella wrapped it. You know we kept it. Your mother made me keep it.”
“For this?” My eyes stared over the bar in the kitchen at the people singing, talking, laughing…They shot up out of my floor like thirsty plants and this place was the oasis. Even I had forgotten how wonderful it was.
“No, honey, not for this.” He nodded toward Adrian. “For your wedding.”
I hung my head. For my wedding. Even in her pain, Mama had hoped for it. How had she felt when Adrian married someone else? Better yet, why hadn’t she told Daddy to do something else with that stupid piece of the table? I smiled down at Sierra, snoring like a little haystack, her head against my shoulder. I would have thought that Dahlia might have come for her by now—I would have if it were my kid—but no doubt she was still plastered to the couch, looking beautiful. “Well, at least Dahlia can use it for her reception.”
Patting Adrian on the back, Daddy moved to the sink and washed his hands. “Never know. You might use it first. These folks are just warming it up for you.”
Adrian’s eyed me with a glance of caution. He didn’t need to say it this time. I got the message. Chill.
I tried. “I guess it’s okay. But just for today. Don’t ever do this again.”
A squiggly line eased across Daddy’s forehead. His white hairline lowered an inch. “Never?”
I glared at him. “Never.”
He clanged the bottom of my Wolfgang Puck pasta pot with a wooden spoon. “Your attention, please!”
The clamor subsided and everyone turned toward the kitchen.
“Dana has been so gracious as to extend her house to us for the rest of the year. So be here next Sunday and every Sunday after that.”
He kissed my cheek and gave me a stern look as everyone cheered. “Don’t ever tell me never, girl. That’s where your Mama went wrong.”
I stood there with my mouth open, wondering if Mama hadn’t gone wrong a few other times, like on the day she said, “I do.” I didn’t mean that of course, but I thought it. I turned and walked to my bedroom, to lay Sierra down between the mountains of coats and jackets. When I tried to get up, she clutched my neck. “Sleep wif me?” she asked in a desperate voice.
An explanation of why I couldn’t rose to my mouth, but suddenly none of it made sense. The slow sleepiness of the old Sundays settled over me and I sank down next her, throwing Aunt Cheryl’s mink over both of us. Something told me we could both use a few hugs and a bit of shut-eye. “I’ll sleep with you, Sierra.”
“Fank you…” she said, drifting off to sleep. My heart echoed her words, sending off one last prayer before sliding off to the land of dreams.
Red satin stilettos. My eyes bulged as Tangela held them up in one hand, all the while referring to the proper page in her handbook with the other. I knuckled the sleep from my eyes. Though I’d been awake since 4:00 a.m., this little “chat” was putting me to sleep.
“Boring, isn’t it?”
I turned toward the voice, to find a pudgy brown face, with maroon smudged over each eye and an immaculate layer of blue fingernail polish on every finger. I looked down. And toe. Shemika, was it? She looked a little different, cuter actually, but it was definitely Mother Holly’s granddaughter. How had she managed to become part of Tangela’s wedding party?
Tangela’s voice broke in again, just as the shrimp cocktail was served. “Now be sure you have the right bra for your dress.” She stared at me, before rolling her eyes at Shemika. “And a girdle if you need one. I don’t want anything hanging out. That’s nasty.”
All the similarly coiffed Tangela look-alikes nodded in agreement. They all wore different shades of the same outfit—a wool skirt, silk shell and cardigan, all with the same pumps that I’d seen when flipping through Vogue. If not for the different shades of skin, I’d have thought that Tangela cloned herself into an army of bridesmaids. Little Bit (well Big Bit) and I were the last bastions of normalcy.
That’s a frightening thought.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I whispered to the teen, watching in amazement as she slurped down one shrimp after another.
“She didn’t want me, that’s for sure. But grandma wasn’t having it. She tries to act all high and mighty, but you can’t dog your peeps, you know?”
Peeps? Tangela was related to Mother Holly? I felt faint. After taking me through all this drama like she was a blue blood of black nobility, Tangela was just a wanna-be from down the way.
Figures.
“The question is,” the girl whispered, licking cocktail sauce off her fingertips, “did you get your man?” She shook her head.
I gulped down my glass of water to keep from choking. This girl was a t-r-i-p. Reminded me of Jericho. I smiled while she continued.
“My boyfriend? He ain’t nothing but a dog. I’ve got one fo
r him though.” She lifted up her shirt a little—higher than I wanted. “I’m four weeks gone.”
My arm shot forward as I resisted the urge to slap her. Lord help me. I’m turning into Mama. All the nights trying to study and babysit Jericho while Rochelle was at work buzzed through my mind. What was this girl thinking? What were any of us thinking? I sighed, thinking of Sierra. She wasn’t much better off.
“Are you insane? Did you plan that? Your grandmother will—” All my cool auntie talk left me like air hissing out of a balloon.
Lord, make a way for this baby, and the one she’s carrying. Help me not to judge her because in all my sin and foolishness I could’ve been caught out there the same way.
The girl smiled, creasing the shiny plum dots of lipstick on her cheeks. I squinted at the identical smears above her eyes.
“Don’t be jealous, okay? I know you’re old and don’t have a man or no children. I didn’t expect you to understand.” She leaned a little closer. “But could you hook me up a little sumpin-sumpin for my wedding? I saw that white girl on the news talking about your shop.”
I sat stunned, listening to Tangela drone on about elbow exfoliation and kneecap lubrication or some other nonsense, while Shemika talked joyfully about throwing her life away to win some silly boy’s love. A boy who might not even acknowledge her, much less marry her. The wind drained out of me in slurping gasps, remembering how hard it had been for Rochelle.
Don’t give up. Step up.
My mind switched gears. Could I somehow make a difference in this situation? Had God planned for me to be here? I sure wasn’t batting a thousand with any of the other relationships in my life. Tangela stood at the front showing bridal accessories like an airline stewardess—in the event of an emergency, this will turn into a flotation device and buoy you right out of the church….
Though my ears heard Tangela’s craziness, my eyes rested on the little girl—that’s what she was to me—sitting beside me painted like a castoff doll head. Her natural twists hung below her shoulders. Earrings marched up her lobes like golden mountain climbers. Her lips, lined in red and filled with the same lipstick smeared on her eyes and cheeks, twisted into a frown. Her eyes looked past me.
Made of Honor Page 16
