“Okay,” Mama said to the air. And to Tony: “You have a good time, young man.”
Inside Tony’s car, Daughter wept openly, and he rubbed her back and let her.
Once she had calmed to just sniffling, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Tony asked.
“For . . . all of that. I don’t know where that came from.”
“Maybe it came from the fact that you taking care of your mama and she doesn’t even know who you are. But then Rico comes in, doesn’t lift a finger to help without you asking, and it’s all love from your mama. I’m just surprised it took you this long.”
Daughter sobbed again. Tony started the car and began driving. “Dinner can wait,” he said. “We can just drive, if you want.”
Daughter nodded. “You know, even after I moved out, I was still there for her. After Bruce died, she threw herself into everything—children’s church, Girl Scouts, Sunday School. And I drove her anytime she needed a ride. I took her to the grocery store every other week. I made sure she didn’t spend Christmas, Easter, or Thanksgiving alone. Me! Not Rico. And now I’m taking care of her. Even after . . . even after how things were for me growing up. Trying to let bygones be bygones. I was there for her. And I still am. But for all she knows, I’m just another home nurse.
“And I try not to be an asshole like Rico about the whole Eddie Levert thing, but she cares more about that man than she does me! Every single day, it’s the same thing. Sometimes I just want to scream, ‘He’s not coming! Ever!’ ” Daughter exhaled. “Is that terrible?”
Tony stroked his beard and tilted his head from side to side, like he was working out a kink in his neck.
“What?” Daughter asked.
“I don’t want to speak out of turn . . .”
“Just say it.”
“First, you need a break. And I don’t mean this, us going out for dinner. You need a real break. A vacation. But more than that . . .” Tony sighed. “Look, I don’t know what all went down when you were growing up. But you gotta make peace with it. I know that’s easier said than done. But I think you have to find a way.”
That’s all I’ve ever done, Daughter thought but didn’t say. Find a way to keep from upsetting Mama, find a way to keep Rico out of Mama’s hair, find a way to get away from Mama, find a way to take care of herself with no help from Mama. Work low-wage job after low-wage job until she became a Realtor and found she had a knack for selling, buying, and flipping houses. And now a second job: take care of Mama. Daughter cursed under her breath.
“Like I said, I don’t know what all went down . . .” Tony said.
“I’ll tell you,” Daughter said. “But let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
People in the neighborhood used to say that Mama kept pushing out babies until she got the color right. Daughter, her middle child, was darker than Bruce, the oldest, despite Daughter’s father being lighter than Bruce’s. Mama’s third and last child, Ricardo, called Rico, fathered by a Puerto Rican musician who passed through one summer, was a buttery yellow baby boy with green eyes and sandy hair. His tight curls, thick lips, and broad nose meant that he could never pass. But passing wasn’t the point. From what Daughter could piece together between her own observations and what she overheard Mama telling her friends, the point was that Rico had Mama’s color. So for once the genetic dice had rolled in favor of the light-bright girl who believed dark niggas fucked the best of all. She played a kind of DNA roulette every time she brought one into her bed.
And then Mama got saved. It happened one Easter Sunday—they only went to church on Mother’s Day, Christmas Eve, and Easter. On Mother’s Day, Mama would wear a white flower pinned to her dress—Bruce called it The Dead Mama flower—and spend all day before and after church in her bedroom sobbing and missing her mother.
Daughter, Bruce, and Rico had few memories of their grandmother, a well-dressed, white-looking Black woman who had disowned their mother for having children out of wedlock. But she did come to visit a few times when they were growing up, always bearing bundles of toys, a crisp twenty-dollar bill for each of them, and for Mama, withering words about how she was living outside the will of God. Even as a child, Daughter understood her mama’s tears on Mother’s Day. She understood how your heart was still connected to your mama, even if she hurt you sometimes.
At first Daughter and her brothers felt joyful after Mama got saved, even though they didn’t fully understand why. They were twelve, ten, and eight years old, and the best they could figure is that the church ladies who surrounded their mother as the pastor prayed had done some sort of magic. Mama had walked to the front of the church weeping during the altar call, but left the service smiling, her arms wrapped around her children, holding them close as they walked home. Mama’s mama had died suddenly the year before—Daughter had overheard Mama say the word aneurysm, but didn’t know what it meant. She’d also overheard Mama tell her friend Miss Lajene that she’d wished she’d gotten right with God before her mama died.
Unfortunately the zeal of the newly converted is bewildering to the children of the newly converted. One Saturday night, you’ve got every blanket in the house draped over your head to drown out the sound of your mother’s headboard banging against your bedroom wall as she hollers her soon-to-be-ex-best friend’s husband’s name. And the next Saturday night, she’s snatching the softened deck of playing cards from your hands because “Games of chance are from the devil!”
Daughter, with the logic of a ten-year-old, thought she could understand how gin rummy might be from the devil, seeing as how the name of the game had gin in it. But what was wrong with “Knuckles” or “I Declare War,” her and her brothers’ other favorite games?
Some things changed about Mama A.C. (After Church, as Daughter thought of her). Like banning cards and men from the house. But some things didn’t change. She still told Bruce and Rico to shut their mouths—and Daughter to shut her Black mouth—if they talked too loudly when her stories were on.
And the church was no match for Eddie Levert. The O’Jays were still Mama’s favorite group, and Eddie Levert was still her favorite in the group. Mama B.C. (Before Church) would tell her girlfriends Miss Nancy and Miss Lajene, “Eddie Levert can have me anytime, anywhere, and anyway he want it, honey! You hear me?” And they would all fall out laughing.
Mama B.C. played O’Jays albums on Friday nights after dinner, if she didn’t have a date or a card party to go to. She’d close her eyes, swing her hips, and sing along with the music. Her dance partners—a Kool cigarette and a glass of whisky, on the rocks. Johnnie Walker Red was her drink of choice.
On those Friday nights, Rico played DJ, changing the albums for Mama, while Daughter played bartender, adding ice and more liquor as needed, before Mama could ask for it. It was like a nightclub for one, with Mama getting lost in love songs and crying by night’s end. Bruce would be out in the streets somewhere, staying out long enough to sneak in after Mama passed out on the couch, but before she woke up in the middle of the night to check on all of them and drag herself to bed.
As they entered their teen years, Bruce was the one out smoking dope, stealing, and brawling over crap games. But it was Daughter whom Mama warned, “Don’t be out there showing your color!” on the rare occasions Daughter went out in the evenings.
Mama A.C. still spent her Friday nights with Eddie Levert, and she needed Daughter around to entertain Rico. Without a cigarette and a glass of whisky, Mama was free to wave her hands in the air as she sang, much like she did at church. In both places, Mama’s nightclub for one and church, she was moved by the spirit to sway and eventually cry.
But over time, Daughter couldn’t discern any joy in those tears. Mama’s friends, Miss Nancy and Miss Lajene, remained “in the world,” as Mama would say. So Mama distanced herself and soon lost touch. And the ladies at church who had surrounded Mama at the altar that Easter Sunday stopped calling after Mama finished the new member’s class. Their work was done. They h
ad led the poor unwed mother of three to the Living Water, as church folk referred to Jesus. But she wasn’t their kind of people.
Years later Daughter wanted no part of the church or brown liquor because they had both made her mama cry.
When Daughter and Tony returned home from Red Lobster, Daughter paused at Mama’s bedroom door and motioned for Tony to keep going down the hall to her bedroom. She cracked the door open just enough to see Mama curled up beneath her thin blanket and hear her snoring lightly. She closed the door and stopped to wash her hands in the bathroom once again, convinced they still smelled like crab.
In her bedroom, she found Tony already beneath her comforter. She undressed and slid in beside him. They had fallen into an easy groove with each other when Tony first started coming around, a decade earlier. He was thirty-two then, had been twice divorced, and was lonely. Daughter had never seen marriage or children in her future, had always been independent, and preferred her own company. Still, she had needs. Tony made her laugh and made her think. He was a generous lover and he was handy. For Daughter, that was enough.
Daughter tried to stay in the moment, to savor how alive her body felt next to Tony’s. But her thoughts wandered to Mama. Always, Mama. Tony gripped her tighter and stroked her faster, as if he knew he was losing her. The headboard banged against the wall, and Daughter remembered how Mama B.C. didn’t seem to care if her children heard her having sex. But the headboard banging had stopped when Mama found Jesus.
There’s an old saying: mothers raise their daughters and love their sons. But who had ever loved Mama, besides her children? Despite her devotion to the church and chaste living, Mama had never had that peace that passes all understanding that was supposed to be yours when you invited Jesus into your heart. Nor did she have that joy, unspeakable joy, promised in the Scriptures. What Mama had was the love of Jesus—whose touch, Daughter imagined, was too ephemeral to quench anything—a quieter, more passive lover than the men she brought into her bed, but who nevertheless demanded everything.
The next morning after breakfast, Daughter asked Tony to sit with Mama for a little while. Instead of calling the hair salon, she ran to Target and bought tearless baby shampoo and conditioner and everything else she would need to do Mama’s hair herself.
After Tony left, Daughter explained to Mama that she was going to wash her hair. Mama could still shower alone and dress herself, so Daughter, wanting to respect her privacy, asked whether she would mind leaning over the kitchen sink.
“Well . . . I don’t know.” Mama patted her hair. It was mostly white now, too thin for the Farrah Fawcett flips, but still hung to her shoulders. “Do you think Eddie would like it? He’s coming today, you know.”
“Yes, Mama. I know.” Daughter swallowed the lump in her throat. “And I think Eddie would want you to let me wash your hair over the sink.”
“Well, all right then.”
It took a few tries to get the water temperature just right. Daughter had lots of towels on hand so Mama could pause and wipe her face whenever she needed to.
When they finished washing and conditioning, she took Mama back to Mama’s room to change into a dry shirt. Then Daughter sat Mama at her vanity table and stood behind her to blow-dry her hair. Mama smiled into the mirror.
As Daughter parted Mama’s hair into sections, taking her time to oil each section and massage the scalp, Mama sighed and leaned back into Daughter’s middle.
“You know, Mama,” Daughter began. “Eddie called and told me he’s going to be late.”
“Oh, no!” Mama said.
“But he doesn’t want you to worry. He wants you to know you’re in good hands with me. He said, ‘Now you take good care of her until I get there, Daughter.’ ”
“Daughter?”
“Yes, Mama. It’s me. Daughter.”
“And what else did Eddie say?”
“He said . . . ‘You tell her I’m coming and take good care of her.’ And I said, ‘Yes, sir. I will tell her.’ ”
“You always were such a polite girl,” Mama said. She reached up and patted Daughter’s hand.
“You remember me, Mama?”
“Sure I do!”
Daughter began to tear up, but also couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t know whether Mama remembered her. But it was enough to know that Mama wanted her to believe she did.
She continued massaging Mama’s scalp. “Does that feel good?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Mama said, over and over until it turned into humming, a random tune Daughter didn’t recognize.
Daughter looked at the two of them in the mirror. Light and dark, but an otherwise matching set of round faces and big, brown eyes stared back at her. Mama’s scalp was still pale, but the rest of her had darkened over time. She was still lighter than a paper bag, she might’ve bragged, if her mind still fixated on such things.
“Mama, a long time ago, you were real hard on me. Real hard. And I don’t know if you remember any of that. Part of me hopes you remember, because I can’t forget. But then, if you remember, I wish you would apologize, or at least recognize . . .”
Mama kept humming. Then she said, “You know when Eddie sang about having a lot of loves, I was one of them loves.” Mama poked at her chest. “Me. Lil nobody me.” Mama chuckled to herself. “Eddie loved me once upon a time. That one night.”
“You’re not a nobody, Mama.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, who am I, then?” Mama sounded so lucid, it startled Daughter. As if someone else had come into the room with them.
“You’re . . . someone who can’t give me what I need. But you’re not nobody.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Daughter twisted Mama’s hair into a single braid. Then she laid out a new turquoise sundress on the bed for her to put on.
“I’ll step out and let you get dressed. And I’ll bring your lunch when I come back.”
“That would be nice,” Mama said. “I want to be ready when Eddie comes. Today’s the day.”
When Daughter returned with Mama’s lunch tray, Mama was in her recliner, smoothing her hands over the sundress, smiling. “I look beautiful,” she said.
“Yes, you do,” Daughter said. She placed the tray on Mama’s lap.
Mama picked up the Polaroid next to her sandwich plate. She stared at it for a moment before putting it down and picking up her sandwich.
Daughter sighed and played the song she’d cued up on her cell phone. As the opening chords of the O’Jays’ “Forever Mine” filled the room, she expected some flicker of recognition from Mama, a smile or something. But there was nothing. Even when Eddie came in on the third verse, it didn’t seem to register with Mama that this was the same song she had quoted earlier. The song played on. Daughter wasn’t sure whether Mama was even listening. Mama ate her sandwich and fruit salad, the Polaroid forgotten.
And then, as Eddie begged his lover to stay, Mama picked up the photo and began to sing along with him, her voice strong and certain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS COLLECTION took shape over the course of many years and twists and turns, and I appreciate everyone who has been along for the ride. Thanks for your love, friendship, support, pep talks, advice, meals, late-night laughter, technical help, feedback, dance breaks, and unwavering belief in me and my stories: Chris Ivey, Tyrese Coleman, Fran and Alan Edmunds, Renee Simms, Bassey Ikpi, Faith Adiele, Lonnae O’Neal, Stanley Love Tate, James Bernard Short, Diana Veiga, Khaliah Williams, Danielle Evans, David Haynes and the whole Kimbilio Center for African American Fiction family, Teresa Foley, Aaliyah Thomas, Melanie Dione, Adam Smyer, Dr. DeMarquis Clarke, Damon Young, Chanie Infante Louisma, Doug Anthony, Tony Burroughs, Wade Carver, Quake Pletcher, Eyan Spaulding, Harry Weaver III, Daniel Henry, Alison Kinney, Mark Sequeira, Rev. Maxwell Grant, Bomani Jones, Mat Johnson, Amber Edmunds, Renelle Carrington, Toya Smith, Celeste C. Smith, Bernadette Adams Davis, Swati Khurana, Meredith Driscoll, Carolyn Edgar, Lawrence Wagner, and Sekou Campbell.
/> Big thanks to Derek Krissoff, Sara Georgi, Jeremy Wang-Iverson, Sarah Munroe, Charlotte Vester, and the whole team at West Virginia University Press for giving this collection so much enthusiastic support and care.
Shout out to my Day Ones: Tamara Winfrey Harris, Yona Harvey, Taneshia Nash Laird, Rebecca Lusolo, Genie Maples, and Issa Mas (my Celie!). Y’all got me this far. Thank you and I love you!
Special thanks and love to my thoughtful readers, cheerleading squad supreme, and dear friends: Brian Broome, Asha Rajan, Abeer Hoque, Mimi Watkins, George Kevin Jordan, Samantha Irby, and Kiese Laymon.
Dennis Norris II, thank you for all the tea and friendship, and for loving and publishing the very first story (“Eula”) in what would become this collection.
Many thanks also to the editors of Cheat River Review, Baltimore Review, and Barrelhouse Magazine for publishing previous versions of some of these stories.
And thanks to Ansel Elkins for the “Autobiography of Eve.” This poem is a treasure.
Love and gratitude to Vanessa German for countless gifts and graces and encouragements. You make the world better.
Thank you for the love and the laughs: Dr. Tyffani Dent, DeShong Perry, Dr. Carolyn Strong, and Dr. LaTasha Sturdivant.
Thank you to my agent extraordinaire, Danielle Chiotti, for first envisioning this collection and guiding me every step of the way to the finish line.
Thank you, Laura Szabo-Cohen and Tony Norman, for being awesome mentors and friends. Twenty-plus years, that’s a mighty long time . . .
To my sisters—Donnette, Shalawn, Tiffany, and Felicia—our story is just beginning.
Thank you, Taylor and Peyton, for your patience and for being proud of me. I love you!
Finally, thank you to my mama and Nay-Nay for sending me to church and Sunday School all those years. I miss you every day.
The Secret Lives of Church Ladies Page 12
