It's All About The Moon When The Sun Ain't Shining (2 page)

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Authors: Ernest Hill

BOOK: It's All About The Moon When The Sun Ain't Shining

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And when she spoke, her voice was neither kind nor polite but rather cold and dry. And the fact that she had not tried to conceal her feelings bothered Omenita and I saw Omenita drop her eyes and I knew she was feeling ashamed. She was feeling ashamed because she was thinking that Mama knew what we had been doing back in my bedroom before she had come home. It remained quiet for a few minutes, then I saw Omenita raise her head and wipe a small bead of sweat from the center of her brow, and I realized it was getting hot in the kitchen with all of us standing in such a congested space. I reached over and raised the tiny window just above the sink. Mama saw me raise it, and I guess she must have been warm as well for she immediately opened the back door and, instantly, I could feel the cool breeze through the window and I could hear the crickets and the birds and the frogs. And all I could think about was how nice it would be to sit outside by the pond with Omenita.

“Guess Maurice told you the news,” Mama said. I looked up, surprised. She was staring at Omenita.

Omenita didn't answer. Instead, she looked at me, confused. And I saw Mama look at her, then at me. And I saw Mama frown. And I forced myself to smile, though it was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment.

“Maurice, you mean to tell me you ain't told that child yet?” Mama said, her tone indicating shock.

“No, ma'am,” I said. “Not yet.”

I saw Omenita staring at me, and I wished I were somewhere else because I didn't want to discuss it at the moment.

“Didn't know it was a secret,” Mama said.

“It's not a secret,” I said. “Just haven't told her yet.”

“Pretty sure she want to know,” Mama said.

She glanced at me, then started toward the bag of groceries that I had placed atop the deep freezer. I was leaning against the counter, but moved aside to let her pass, then I watched as she removed the other bag and lifted the freezer top. I heard the old rusty hinges screech, then I saw the frosty air rising off the meat when the hot air in the kitchen and the cool air in the freezer collided. I saw her remove some pork chops and neck bones from the bag and stuff them in the freezer. I didn't look, but I could still feel Omenita's eyes on me. And when I remained silent, she addressed me directly for the first time since arriving in the kitchen.

“Know what?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

Omenita looked at me, then at Mama.

“He got news,” Mama said.

“News?” Omenita said. “What kind of news?”

“Mama, please!” I said, louder than intended.

I saw Mama's head snap. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I said.

She looked at me hard, menacingly.

“Boy! As long as you still got what little sense the good Lord gave you, don't you ever raise your voice to me ... You hear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. I averted my eyes submissively. Suddenly I was a one-year-old child instead of a twenty-year-old man.

“Damn,” I heard Omenita say underneath her breath, and when she did I saw Mama whirl and look at her. Mama's lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed, and her forehead frowned.

“Watch your mouth, missy,” she said. “This ain't no bar room.”

I saw Omenita's eyes begin to water. Then I saw Omenita's head turn until her sad brown eyes were cast longingly upon my face. And for a brief moment, she looked at me and I looked at her. Then her lips parted.

“I think I better go,” she said.

“No!” I said. “You don't have to.”

“Maybe that would be best,” Mama said.

“Mama!” I said, shocked.

Omenita turned to leave. I followed her.

Chapter Two

B
y the time I reached the front door, Omenita had already made it outside. And from the doorway, I saw her walking toward the large oak tree just beyond the house and just short of the highway. And I thought that maybe she was going to sit in the swing that Daddy and I had hung from one of the branches but instead she paused in the shadows, and her back was to me, and her tall, slender frame was pointing out toward the darkness, and the moon was bright and the stars were shining. I liked the way she looked basking in the light of the moon. And I liked the look of the soft, subtle glow of the dim light cascading off her long, lustrous hair. And I liked the way her dress was hugging her tiny, delicate waist, and the way it hung off her shoulders and the way it fell down her back and clung to her butt and stopped midway along her full, shapely thighs. And as I looked at her, I wondered why things had to be so difficult between the two of them. Why all the tension? Why all the stress? Why all the strain?

I discretely watched her for a moment, then I stepped out onto the stoop and closed the door behind me. I eased next to her, and when I was close, I slipped my hand about her waist, and my head, like hers, was locked forward. And as I stood beside her, purposely giving her time to collect herself, I could not help but notice that there was a still quietness about and that the night air was filled with the smell of freshly cut grass and that in the distance I could hear the steady hum of rubber tires on the smooth asphalt highway just beyond the yard. As my eyes strayed across the street and beyond the old railroad track, I could see the red glare of the end of a cigarette, and though I could not see the person's face, I knew that someone was sitting on the porch, cloaked in darkness, enjoying the peaceful solitude of a soothing smoke.

And along that street, beyond the tracks, I could see rows of old houses, shacks really, all different, yet all the same. And all following the contours of the street winding unceremoniously through the quaint, depressed, black neighborhood with which I was all too familiar. As I gazed out upon the horizon, I was anxious to talk to Omenita, but she was still angry, and when she was angry she was meanspirited, and somewhere deep inside of me a wiser voice cautioned patience, so I remained silent, waiting for some sign from her that she was ready to speak calmly about that which had just transpired. I was secretly afraid that when she did decide to speak, I would not like what she had to say. I would not like it at all.

A moment or two passed and when she remained speechless, I decided, against better judgment, and spoke first.

“You okay?” I asked, then waited.

She pulled away, ever so slightly, and turned toward me, but she was not looking at me. She was looking at her car, which was sitting in the yard, on the grass, just off the seashells that were the driveway. I saw her looking and I knew she was contemplating leaving, and I knew she was wishing that she had never come to see me, and that she had never gone in the back room with me and that she had not heard the words that Mama had spoken to her. And she was thinking all this and at the same time, she was trying to hold her face straight and keep her eyes dry, and not let on how bad Mama's words had hurt her.

“What's she so anxious for you to tell me?” she finally asked. Her voice was low, but I could still hear the pain.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Must be something,” she said. “Something else for Miss Audrey to throw in my face. What is it?” she continued to push. “Did you win another award? Did you find out you're graduating at the head of your class? Did some big company offer you a job? Please tell me. What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said again.

She looked at me, and I could tell that my answer had not satisfied her.

“Must be something or else Miss Audrey wouldn't be carrying on so.”

I remained quiet. I had said all I planned to say.

“What is it?” she asked again, then waited.

I remained quiet.

“I'm leaving,” she said.

“All right,” I said. “I'll tell you.”

She waited for a moment but when I remained silent, she spoke. “Well,” she said.

“I'll tell you later,” I said, “when the time is right.”

She turned to leave. I grabbed her hand.

“Come on, Omenita,” I said. “Don't act like this . . . It's nothing ... I swear. Mama's just pulling your chain.”

“It's something to me,” she said.

“Come on,” I said. “Let's just talk about something else. We haven't seen each other in over four months.... Please, let's talk about something else. Okay?”

I felt the tension in her arm loosen and I released my grip, and she turned toward the street and stared far off into the darkness.

“Can't take Miss Audrey no more,” she said. “Can't take her trying to make me feel like I'm nothing.”

“She doesn't know what she's doing,” I said. “It's just her way.”

“She know,” Omenita said.

“No,” I said. “It's just her way.”

Omenita looked at me, and her eyes began to water.

“Why are you taking up for her?”

“I'm not,” I said.

“You are,” she said. She had been fighting back tears, but now she could not fight them any longer, and as the tears descended her face, I could feel my insides churning, and I could feel my heart aching, and all I wanted to do was put my arms around her and pull her close to me and make the pain and hurt that was making her cry dissipate.

I reached for her and she pulled away, and I saw her eyes narrow and I saw her nose begin to run and I saw her drop her head and I saw her wipe her nose with the back of her hand and I could see that her hand was trembling and I could hear her sniffling and I knew she was trying to stop crying. I wanted to put my arms around her but I knew she would not let me.

“She know,” Omenita said, sobbing heavily. “And you know she know. You were there. You were there just like me.”

“I was where?” I asked, confused.

“You saw the way she treated me.”

“Treated you when?” I asked. I was at a loss. She was not making sense.

“Could've let me know that she was proud of me ... seeing how me and you were a couple ... and seeing how I was the first in my family to graduate.”

“Graduate,” I mumbled to myself. Then it dawned on me. “High school,” I said. “Girl, you talking about high school?”

“But no, she had to be mean. She had to let me know I wasn't nothing.”

“She was proud,” I said. “She was proud of both of us.”

“No,” Omenita said. “She wasn't proud. That was the happiest day of my life, and she just had to let me know that I wasn't good enough. Always been that way with Miss Audrey. I graduate from high school and she got to let me know you the val. I go to junior college and she got to let me know you going to the university. I take a job around here so I can be close until we can be together and she got to let me know I didn't need to go to school for no job like that. She know alright. She know just what she doing.”

“No,” I said. “It's not like you think.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “And you know it just as well as I do.”

Omenita started crying again and I put my arms around her and pulled her close. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and my heart was aching because I could hear the hurt in her voice.

“It's not like you think,” I said again.

And when I said that, she buried her head into my shoulder, and her tormented body began to pulsate and the tense muscles in her back began to shake. And I could feel her warm tears seeping through my shirt, and I wanted to comfort her, but I didn't know what to say. I pulled her closer and held her tighter and suddenly it seemed quiet again. We were in a dense haze and I could hear the birds singing and the crickets chirping and the bullfrogs calling to one another. And then, in an instance, I heard her voice, above it all, calling my name softly, tenderly.

“Yes,” I answered her call, and I looked down and her glazed eyes were wide, gazing out into the darkness of the night. Suddenly, she looked up at me, her face wet with tears.

“When you graduate in a few weeks ... and find a job ... and we get married. Promise me we'll move away from here.”

“She'll always be my mother,” I said.

“But you won't always be her boy,” she said, her eyes full of tears. “You'll be my man ... and we'll have our own family ... and we'll have our own lives ... Promise me ... Promise me we'll move away ... I can't take her always downing me ... Promise me.”

“I promise,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Say it like you mean it. Say it like it's true.”

“I do mean it,” I said. “It is true.”

I looked at her as tenderly as I could, and her sad eyes grew wide, and the flesh of her brow furrowed, forming an angry frown.

“How she gon' judge me?” she asked. “And she just a maid.”

“That's my mama,” I said.

“And I'm your woman.”

“She doesn't mean any harm,” I said for the third or fourth time.

“The hell she don't,” Omenita said, and I heard her voice trembling with a rage that seemed to have emanated from a strange place deep within her soul.

“Shouldn't cuss in front of her,” I said.

“So, now it's my fault?”

“I didn't say that,” I said.

“Sure sound like it to me.”

“Omenita,” I said, “you know how she is.”

“And!” she said.

“You shouldn't give her a reason,” I said.

“What did I do?” she asked.

“You know she's a churchgoing woman,” I said.

“So?”

“Just need to watch your mouth,” I said. “That's all.”

“No,” she said. “You need to be a man.”

“I am a man,” I said, feeling my anger rise.

“No,” she said. “A man would protect his woman. He wouldn't duck his head and hide.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Stand up to her,” she said.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” I said. “I am a man.”

In the distance, I saw headlights approaching fast, and when the car was close, it slowed, and as it passed, I recognized the car as belonging to Deacon Fry, and from the appearance of things, Miss Cora had gone to prayer meeting, too, and Deacon Fry was bringing her home, for when he pulled into her yard next door and she got out, she was carrying her Bible and wearing that cream-colored dress that she only wore to church or funerals or prayer meetings. Miss Cora was a portly woman, and it took her a while to get out and when she walked toward her porch, she kept her hand on the car, bracing herself until she was close to the steps that led into her house. There was a vacant lot between our houses, and as she hobbled up the steps onto her porch, I told myself that I was going to mow that lot in the morning because the grass was getting just tall enough to draw snakes. And Omenita was scared of snakes. And tomorrow evening I was going to make some sandwiches and fry some chicken and we were going to sit in the backyard on one of the picnic tables underneath the pecan tree. At least, that was my plan, before all of this confusion with Mama.

I was standing half-dazed watching Deacon Fry back out of the yard when I felt Omenita pull away from me and start toward her car, and I knew that now, not only was she angry at Mama, but she was also angry at me. For in her mind, the conversation was not supposed to be over. I was supposed to tell her that I was going to talk to Mama and that I was going to make things right. She was my woman and I was going to make it right.

“Wait!” I said.

Suddenly, I saw her stop and wheel around, and when I was closer, I looked into her eyes, and in those eyes was anger and sadness and pain.

“Wait!” She repeated my request in a voice tinged with sarcasm.

“Yes,” I said. “Wait.”

“I'm tired of waiting,” she said, and I saw the tears rolling down her face. “That's all I been doing since I met you. Waiting on you to finish college. Waiting on you to find a job. Waiting on you to be a man.”

“I am a man,” I said.

“Prove it,” she said.

I became quiet.

“I'm tired of waiting,” she said. “And I'm not going to wait any longer.”

“Baby.”

“No,” she said. “From now on if we're gon' be together, we gon' be together. No more waiting.”