Daughters of Jubilation

by Kara Lee Corthron

  “What’s wrong?”

  He inches to the side.

  “Come here,” he says. He points to somethin’ through the window, inside the store. It looks like a small trumpet, but it’s silver and shiny.

  “That is an E-flat soprano cornet. It’s meant to play delicate, mellow music, but it’s a work of art just sittin’ there without makin’ a sound.”

  He’s right. I don’t know a thing about instruments, but it is a beautiful sight. We both look at it until a man on the other side of the glass steps into view and glares at us. We back away.

  “Evvie. The music I could make on that thing would knock you out!”

  “Looks pricey,” I say.

  “Yeah it’s about an arm and a leg. And a neck and a foot.” He slowly nears the window again. “But that I could deal with. It would take a mighty long time, but I could save up. I’ve done it before.”

  He keeps starin’. He wants it bad, but this is not a store for us.

  “Have you asked Mr. Rance at the pawn shop?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  He laughs to himself. “Couple times. Last time, he told me to stop askin’. I’ve checked around. Seems like this is the only soprano cornet in the county. Hell. Might be the only one in South Carolina.” He sighs, and I’m struck, not for the first time, by the blind stupidity of Arthur Brickney and all the others like him. It ain’t illegal for me and Clay to go into his shop, but we wouldn’t dare.

  Over the years, Brickney’s made it quite clear that he’s only interested in white customers. The few times Negroes tried to patronize the place, he wouldn’t let ’em touch any merchandise and tripled—sometimes quadrupled—his prices on the spot if they showed any serious interest in makin’ a purchase. Anything to get rid of ’em. I’m sorry, but my nigger money works exactly the same as their white-people money, because guess what: it’s the SAME money. Now, if you run a business, the object is to make money, ain’t it? Jesus. I think years a hatin’ colored people so hard must cause some kinda brain damage.

  I take Clay’s hand and lead him away from this idiotic establishment and walk us toward the park.

  “Someday you’ll be up north, where I bet they got tons a them cornet things! Just hundreds of ’em all over the place.”

  Clay snickers. “Yeah, I heard they grow up there like weeds.”

  “That’s right! You can have one for every day a the year!”

  Just inside the park is a playground for li’l kids. Since there ain’t no kids here right now, Clay and I sit in the swings.

  “Tell me about your thing, Evvie.”

  “My what?”

  “You know! Your thing. The thing that gets you excited when nothin’ else does. The thing that can take the blues away. Stars and such for you. Right?”

  I almost forgot I’d told him about that.

  “I don’t know how much of a thing it is. I just find it interesting. Ain’t like playin’ a instrument. Not like I can carry the stars with me wherever I go.”

  “You don’t have to. They already there,” he says simply.

  “Still. It’s just somethin’ I like. A hobby.”

  We dangle in the swings, kickin’ up small puffs of dust from the ground.

  “But? Couldn’t you be like… an astronomer?”

  I grin and restrain myself from laughin,’ because he’s bein’ sweet right now, but as soon as he said that, I got this goofy picture in my mind of me in an old-timey observatory takin’ notes from Galileo, who’s wearin’ an old-timey wig and green stockings. I’m sure that’s not really what being an astronomer looks like.

  “I can’t do that,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “Cuz! You gotta go to school and study for a long time before you can be somethin’ like that!”

  “Here’s an idea….” He playfully kicks my foot. “Go to school and study for a long time.”

  I can’t even let myself imagine it. How many years would I have to watch Abigail before I could pay for such a thing? By the time I’d have enough saved, she’d be ready for college.

  “Clayton, I can’t afford a damn telescope! How you figure I’m gonna pay for college?”

  “They got these new things called scholarships. I hear they give ’em out to smart, passionate people, so…” He looks at me expectantly and then adds, “So it’s too bad we don’t know anybody like that.”

  I shake my head at his silliness. “You gotta be brilliant for all that,” I tell him.

  “I feel like if the want is bad enough, it’s gonna happen.”

  Impossible as it is, just the thought makes me smile, and that makes him smile even bigger.

  “Excuse me?”

  A white girl about our age stands in front of us next to a small boy.

  We both hop off the swings so she can push her little brother or whoever she’s got with her.

  I ask Clay, “You think we should turn around or keep—”

  “I’ve seen you before,” the white girl says to us.

  We look at each other, unsure who she’s talkin’ to.

  “You.” She points to Clay. “You work at Alexander Auto, doncha?”

  “Higher, Betsy! Higher,” the child demands.

  This Betsy pushes harder, but her eyes remain on Clay.

  “Yeah. It’s my pop’s place.”

  “Wow. Good for y’all,” she says. I can’t put my finger on why, but I’m gettin’ a bad feelin’, and I wanna go.

  “Clay,” I whisper, “we should go.”

  He nods, and we start to head in the other direction. I hear the squeaking of the rusty swing behind us, then the boy whining, then fast footsteps.

  “Hold on a second.” Betsy is back.

  “You two know where I could find any parties around here? You know, like”—she lowers her voice—“Negro parties?”

  I turn my attention to the ground to prevent myself from doin’ somethin’ I’ll regret. She got a lotta nerve.

  “We don’t go to parties,” Clay explains. “It’s against our religion.”

  I clear my throat and pretend to look for somethin’ in my purse to keep from laughin’.

  “Betsy, I’m tellin’ on you! You can’t leave me,” the boy hollers.

  “I have to go,” she grumbles. “I’m Betsy, by the way,” she says.

  “We know,” I say. Not that she’s noticed my existence. I feel the tiniest hint of a headache, and I try to focus on somethin’ neutral. Swing set: seat, chains, poles.

  She looks at Clay. “And your name is…?”

  He sighs. “Clayton.”

  That red-orange band in my gut starts pulsing. My mind, determined not to jube in this moment, fights for neutrality. Ladder, slide, teeter-totter.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, Clayton.” She puts her hand out for a shake, and my blood boils. I can tell he doesn’t want to do it, but Clay lightly shakes her hand.

  Like a reflex I didn’t know I had, I dip down into that angry band and touch it. Just a light touch. Betsy suddenly gasps, clutching her stomach. She quickly recovers, but seems different now. Less sure of herself.

  “I should go,” she says vaguely.

  I didn’t hurt her. It was just a light touch. And nothing terrible happened. Everything is fine. The looming headache dissolves, and I don’t feel sick or anything. Maybe it’s better to embrace it instead of fighting.

  “See ya around,” she says, and heads back in the other direction, no longer experiencing any discomfort. “Don’t be a crybaby,” I hear her yell.

  When I’m sure she’s out of earshot, I exhale. “I didn’t think she was ever gonna leave,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, but he’s distracted, searching all around us.

  “What you lookin’ for?”

  “Come on.” He grabs my hand, and we walk, fast. Before I can question our pace, Clay tosses somethin’ in a garbage can.

  “What was that?”

  He shakes his head. “Betsy’s phone
number.”

  So that’s what the handshake was about. Christ Jesus, white girls are bold. Cuz they never have no consequences. It’s infuriating.

  “I had to make sure nobody saw that,” Clay says. “I ain’t in the mood for no trouble.”

  I exhale again. I was close to doing somethin’ regrettable to that girl. Somethin’ to make up for all the years she’s lived without any repercussions for her actions. And I didn’t. I gave her a warning, and it was enough. But I wanted to do more and… I got all this excess energy now. I have to use it. How? On what?

  “Evvie? What’s up?”

  “Nothin’.” Can I make it go away? Can I ignore it?

  “I’m sure nobody saw nothin’, if that’s it,” he says.

  “Mmm.” What the hell do I do?

  “You actin’ real funny.”

  I have to do somethin’ before it takes over. I don’t think I’m angry anymore, but I remember how I settled into my anger at Grammie Atti’s, and I try that again. Instead of a mere touch, I allow my inner self to sit in it. To really feel it. The wind starts to blow, howl, and the howlin’ sounds like strange music notes. Off key. Hundreds of green, yellow, and brown leaves spin toward us forming a funnel, and then they blast into our faces. Clay and I cover our eyes, and in a heartbeat, the wind quiets and the leaves all softly land at our feet.

  “Damn! You think a hurricane’s comin’?” Clay asks, worried and pullin’ leaf bits from his hair and off his clothes.

  I stare at the ground just ahead of us. I can’t move. Clay follows my gaze, and I know I’m not seein’ things, cuz he goes silent. The leaves have fallen in such a way that they perfectly form the words “HAPPY HAPPY.”

  13 Cyclone

  LATE. LATE LATE LATE. THEY said on the radio there’s sposeta be big deal meteor showers tonight and we might be able to see ’em around two forty-five this morning. I know I shouldn’t be going out this late, but I figure this might be one of those once-in-a-lifetime things, so I decide to take my chances. Mama sleeps like the dead once she’s out. The twins are more of a concern, but if I make it all the way out the house without wakin’ ’em, they should stay asleep till I get back.

  I slip on some old pants and my flats and pull a jacket over my nightshirt. I creep down the stairs as slow and quiet as I can be. Lifting my house key from the key hook is the scariest moment. I hold my breath and one, two, three… got ’em. Not a sound. I sneak out the door and close it gently behind me.

  Next hurdle. I bear down, and using all my strength, I hoist my bicycle from the back porch and carry it, clamping down on the chain and all, out into the street. I set it down to take a brief rest. Then I pick it up again and carry it to the end of the block. I make sure I’m well on my way before I finally put it down and ride.

  Free. I know it ain’t the safest time to travel, what with rednecks out at all hours, but there is something fun about wheelin’ around town in the middle of the night. The streets are empty. Nobody’s around, thank Christ Jesus. It’s like the meteor showers are happening just for me. Wish I could share this with Clay, though. Hell, he’ll be gettin’ up to go to work in a few hours, since his dad keeps makin’ him open up the shop.

  Takes me about forty minutes to get out to the edge of town and just under ten more to get myself up to the lookout. That last mile is all uphill. I’m huffin’ and puffin’ when I’m done. I know I couldn’t have used it tonight noways, but someday, I do hope we get a car. Mama says who needs it when I got the bike and we both got the city bus? But I bet it feels different to have your very own car. That might be why Clay feels like a man compared to the other boys his age. Technically it’s his dad’s car, but still. Close enough. Probably closer than I’ll ever get.

  I watch the sky. I use the binoculars that Uncle George gave me last Christmas—a thoughtful gift until he made sure to let me know how much they cost him. They’re not the best quality, but it’s what I have, so they’ll have to do.

  I focus them. A few clouds drift by, but for the most part the night is clear. When I was younger, I dragged Mama and the twins outta bed to look for Comet Arend-Roland from our back yard. They were still babies and screamed the whole time and Mama complained, and we could hardly see it at all. I made up my mind then not to share this stuff with the family anymore. So even if I’m a little lonely, at least it’s peaceful.

  I see something. I adjust both lenses to get a better look, and I see movement growing in intensity. So bright, I don’t even need the binoculars. Then they all start to fall through the sky. Dazzling streams of light. I can’t believe how many there are. How beautiful this sight is. When I don’t think I can handle any more beauty, they start to swirl in a circular motion. A cyclone of light. This is a rare atmospheric phenomenon that has to be seen to be believed. Because I know what magic looks like, I know this is pretty damn close, but it’s not magic. It’s the elegance of the universe.

  Without moving my eyes, I reach down to make sure the bike is securely leaning against the tree before I edge closer. I know moving a few feet closer can’t possibly make much of a difference, but it feels like I’m nearer to touching the sky when I do. I take a few more steps, and when I’m convinced my view can’t possibly get any better, I plant myself and stand, still in awe.

  I stare as long as I can. I try not to blink. I want to sear this image in my mind so I can always remember it. If I was artistic, I would try to draw what I see, but I’m not so good at art. I wish I had a camera, but there’s no way a photograph could capture the motion. I just wanna be able to always recall this picture. I’ll do my best to describe it to Clay and Anne Marie. And Daddy. Maybe one day, well into the future, I’ll describe it to Mama. Maybe my own kids, if I ever have any.

  After a while, my head starts to hurt a bit. Not like the dangerous headaches, but from eyestrain. Truth be told, since I discovered that connecting with my red-orange band makes ’em go away, I haven’t had any bad headaches at all. I think that can only be a good thing.

  I know it’s about time to go, so I soak it in for one more minute, feeling lucky and smart and part of a cosmos too vast for any of us to ever fully understand.

  The showers begin to dim. Finally I drop my arms, shake ’em out for a second, and then I turn around to head home. I check my watch and see that it’s nearly three thirty. Later than I thought, but not so bad. I’ll be home long before anyone’s awake.

  I stretch and let out a huge yawn as I walk back toward the path, and then I stop and almost laugh in my sleepiness. Until I get back to the tree where I left my bicycle.

  It’s gone.

  Sure it’s dark and all I have is a flashlight to guide me as I go from tree to tree searching, but I know exactly which tree I propped it up against. Now I’m runnin’, but where the hell can I run to? The bike didn’t just take itself for a joyride! And I know ain’t nobody been up here or I’da heard ’em. The sweat from biking uphill earlier has now dried and makes me shiver in my thin jacket.

  How could this have happened? Of all the things I was worried about, losing my bike wasn’t one of ’em! I just stand there like a moron, not knowing what to do. I can’t go home without that bike. To make matters worse, I’m suddenly so tired I can’t keep my thoughts straight. I return to the tree where I know—I KNOW!—I parked my bike. I slide down to the ground, lying back against the trunk. I rub my hands together for warmth and close my eyes. If I could just rest for a few minutes, maybe I’ll have a better idea of what to do.

  In my eyes-closed world. Stars and meteor showers and distant galaxies right up in my face. I’m floating up to greet ’em. I’m up high in the atmosphere, and when I look down below, there’s Clay. I wave at him, but he don’t wave back. He looks like he’s shoutin’ something at me, but all I can see are his lips movin’. Can’t hear a word. I notice I’m gettin’ closer to the nexus of the swirling circle of blue, and I can feel its heat. It’s the opposite of what you’d think: blue stars are the hottest and red are the coolest. I look
down again, and where Clay was, Daddy now stands. He smiles and waves up to me with a cigarette danglin’ out the side of his mouth.

  “Daddy? Look at me! Look up here!”

  “I see you, pudd’n’,” he calls. “I see you.”

  I look up again and now see that I’m headed straight for a giant ball of blue flames and I’m picking up speed and I don’t know how to stop myself. I scream for Daddy, but now his body is wrapped in chains from his neck down to his feet. His eyes full of tears. He can’t protect me.

  I awaken to a weird feeling, like breath. I start to fully wake up, glad that what I just experienced was a regular dream and nothing more. I focus my eyes and jump, but steady myself just as quick. Something sits on my chest, breathing warm tiny breaths into my face. A little cottontail. I’ve never been this close to one before, but here she is, sittin’ on me like we’re old friends.

  “Hey there,” I say as softly as possible. Her breath comes quick, and I can feel her tiny heartbeat going a mile a minute.

  “You scared?” I whisper to her. She stares into my eyes. Then she takes her little back foot and she tap, tap, taps it on my abdomen.

  “What are you doin’?” I ask her.

  She stares at me and doesn’t answer, since she’s just a rabbit. Then she does it again, the tap tap tapping. I’m about to try to go into her head (never done that with an animal before, but how hard can it be?) when she hops off me and scampers away at the hint of a sound and then a blur sails past my line of vision.

  “Hello?” I call out, not sure what I just saw, but it’s a lot clearer than it would’ve been before I closed my eyes, because the sky is starting to lighten. I check my watch. Five after five. This is not good.

  From the other direction, it comes again, but slower this time. Slow enough for me to see that the blur is riding my bike.

  “Hey!” I yell. “HEY!”

  The bicycle thief pedals backward this time until his eyes meet mine.

  Oh. Shit.

  “You call? I come,” says the black-haired stranger with his slimy smile. I cross my arms around my chest as tight as I can to keep my hands from trembling. I try to casually look around to see if the rest of his cronies are here, but he seems to be alone.