The Sweet by and By (29 page)

“Are you going to make a confession here in the street?” I laughed awkwardly.

“As a matter of fact I am,” Mama said, and her hushed tone made me know she was more somber than I had ever seen her. “I’ve asked myself ’bout a thousand times if you need to know this, and right now, I believe it’s more for me than it is for you. But this feels like a day for honesty to me. It’s in the air.”

I didn’t respond. I was cautious.

“April . . .” She stopped herself momentarily and looked at the ground before resuming. “You had a brother. Thomas. Born and died in the same month, two years before you were born.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” I felt strangely angry with her. Not for what she had said, but because I must have decided at some point in my life that my mother was forbidden to have secrets.

“It’s your turn to be mad,” she said, willing to leave off there. “I’m listening to you.” I wanted more.

“I left Thomas with your daddy one afternoon, your grandma was supposed to come. I wasn’t gone but an hour. When I came back, he was dead in his crib.”

“Was he sick?”

“No. I don’t know. I never will. Your father was there. Sittin on the porch asleep.”

“Drunk,” I snapped, seeing myself at five, hiding under the bed with my hands over my ears. Drunk. I had never used the word to describe my father to my mama. But the anger of years can live on its own, and it reared up, serpentlike and punishing.

“He probably had some beers, maybe more than that. He usually

did. I knew that about your daddy when I married him, only I didn’t know it was stronger than both of us put together.”

“He killed his own child.”

“Honey, don’t you know that me hatin your daddy would have been the easiest thing in the world? If I wanted to, I could have stoked that fire enough all this time that it would be burning right now, and burn me up with it. Listen to me. I left my baby in the hands of a person I knew full well couldn’t take care of him. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”

“That’s not true. You said Grandma was coming.”

“She was, she did. But I was that baby’s mother. I was the one . . .” Mama choked on her words.

We held each other while she cried. For the first time ever, I felt I might be a small comfort to the woman who had spent her life com- forting everyone else. There was a long space, space for breath, space to regain footing once we had hit the solid ground of revelation.

“I can be a mother to my baby, Mama.”

“Can you?” Mama looked up with bloodred eyes. I didn’t know then that I would hear that question often, inside my head, posed by myself, to myself, whenever the choice for motherhood required me to answer yes, even if I didn’t necessarily feel it. It was Mama’s own constant, never-ending “yes” that forged my life, and my own “yes” would have to be every bit as strong, resilient, and long-suffering.

“Yes, Mama, yes.” I kissed her, and she touched my cheek, moist with a mixture of her tears and mine.

She pulled back from me, relieved by a promise that I had hurled into the future with all my strength. “There’s something else,” she said.

“Now? I think I need a break.”

“That was about me. This is about you.”

“You’re going to tell me something I don’t already know?” “Do you know where your name come from?”

“The month I was born in, that’s what Grandma said.”

“Well that ain’t right. There’s another reason, and the only other person who knows it is Margaret Clayton.”

“Why?”

“She was the only one ever asked me, including your Grandma.” “Tell me then.”

“When I was a girl and your Granddaddy was alive and well, I loved to go to his store. All of life was in that store, comings and goings all the time, seemed like it to me anyway. I might as well have been in New York City.”

“It was torn down before I ever saw it.”

“Well it was something, and he was proud of it, I tell you that. One day in spring, before Easter, I stopped on the way home, but Daddy wasn’t inside. The boy that helped him said he didn’t know where he was, but he left me a note. When I opened it there was a map inside, not a real map, but one he had drawn with thick crayons, giving me directions. I followed that map all over the yard and finally to the back of the store, and there was a long box lying in a wheelbarrow with my name on it. Daddy jumped out of the storage room and scared me so bad I screamed. He said, ‘Girl, go ahead and open it, can’t you see it’s got your name on it?’ He never could keep a surprise, no tellin how long he was hiding back there waitin for me to find my way with that homemade treasure map. I’ve never been no good at directions.”

“And?” I prodded, realizing I sounded impatient. I couldn’t imag- ine what it had to do with me.

“Child, I tore into that thing so fast it would make your head spin. At first all I saw was wadded-up tissue paper, but when I pulled it all off, I found what Daddy had bought for me. A kite, all different colors, the prettiest thing you ever saw. Daddy and me, we took it and ran straight across the road to a mowed down field and f lew that thing all afternoon. It was like I was meant to f ly a kite and I hadn’t

ever touched one before. Daddy kept chasing me and whenever he got close, I went even faster, pulling the kite so high above our heads it wasn’t no bigger than a sparrow up there in the sky.”

Mama looked up and took a deep breath, like she was trying to see whether if she looked long enough it might still be f lying, lifted by an invisible wind.

“Daddy had a heart attack on Easter Day, young as he was, and died the same night. I f lew that kite all spring, every day except when it was rainin, most of the time all by myself. When you was born, I looked at you in the face and I said, ‘April. Those were my f lyin days.’ ”

I was going to tell her it was beautiful, I was going to say thank you, but instead I found her eyes, lingered, and drank her in.

“Stop starin at me, girl,” she said. “You got somethin to say?” “I don’t.”

She looked back to where we had parked. “I’m gettin colder. I shoulda brought my scarf.” We walked again.

“Mama, I will figure this out. You know I will.” “What about Corey?” she asked, hopeful.

“I’m not going to marry him if that’s what you’re asking. That’s what he wants, but I told him no. He wants to help support this baby though; he’s offered to put it in writing.”

She didn’t comment but asked, “Do you ever wonder if we make life harder than it needs to be?”

“Is that directed at me?”

“Baby, it ain’t directed anywhere. Only wondered about.”

I moved in front of her so she had no choice but to stop walking. “Out of all your pearls of wisdom, I think about one. Do you know what it is?”

“Brush your teeth or they’ll rot out?”

“That too. But you told me that the only way to live was to act like what you believe is already so.”

“Is that right?” Mama replied, appearing triumphant. “It has not failed me yet,” I said.

Mama turned the collar of her coat up against the gusty November wind as a substitute for the scarf she didn’t bring.

“Look at you,” she said. “I sure named you right. You’re f lyin still.” I hugged her in the street, holding her longer than she expected me to. She pushed me away and added, “I was gon say ‘you forgot your milk,’ but I thought I might sound too much like your mama.”

We didn’t speak once we got in the car. It was getting close to din- nertime, which, as I had earlier explained to Corey and Jasmine, actu- ally meant lunch to Mama’s generation. They had already set the table by the time we returned. Taking off our coats, we warmed ourselves in the kitchen, still heated by the overworked oven. Jasmine joined us first, Corey followed, his eyes searching mine for any indication of what had or had not been revealed. Mama perceived the distress signal before it had even fully registered with me. She offered her hand.

“You’re Corey. I know you,” she said. “My hands are like ice, I’m sorry.”

I watched the muscles in his jaw and neck relax. Mama’s knee- jerk diplomacy consisted of erasing the borders between neighboring countries by simply deciding they need not exist. Armed with steam- ing serving dishes, we returned to the dining area and sat. Our plates and napkins were a mismatched effort at graduate student elegance, but they added to the lack of pretense that welcomed Mama and me to each other’s Thanksgiving and made us all comfortable partaking freely of the staggering feast of her presence.

c h a p t e r tw e n ty- s e v e n

Margaret

L

orraine is sitting in a big chair near me, talking. I am watch- ing her mouth. Her lips open and close in slow motion. On

the

other side of the room, there’s a woman in here who keeps

trying to take my order. I don’t think it’s time for supper, but she’s asking what she can get for me. I haven’t answered her yet. But I’m thinking, “She’s not really asking me what I want. Nobody asks what you want here.” But there she stands. Big too. She’s got a head full of blue-black hair puffed up in a bouffant, and a little white cap on top, wearing a pale yellow dress with a plain white apron, no ruff les. She looks overworked, and I know waitressing is hard work. I haven’t done it myself, but I’ve known plenty of people who have. On your feet all day. Have to be polite if you expect to get any sort of tip, and have to clean up after every- body’s mess, except in the fanciest restaurants where you only have to take the order and they’ve got other people to do the rest, even down to serving the food. Clearly this woman has to do it all herself.

I don’t know where my bed is. All I can see is lots of stools along a bar, and then I’m at that bar too, but I’m not sitting at a stool, I’m lying in bed, but the bed must look like a stool because it fits right in line with the other stools.

“You’re gon have something to drink in a few minutes.” I can barely make out Lorraine’s words. Did I ask for something to

drink? I don’t remember doing it. “What do you have on special?” I say to the waitress woman with the pad and pencil.

Lorraine says something about a cup of ice—she sounds frustrated, I can’t hear her very well. The woman with the pad talks over her which surprises me, because not many people talk over Lorraine. “We have Salisbury steak with gravy on special. That comes with two home- made vegetables. We also have a fried catch-of-the-day,” she says, tap- ping her pencil on her chin, then using it to scratch her head, without damaging the construction that is her hairdo.

“When did y’all start taking orders?” I ask.

She coughs and answers. “I don’t take everybody’s orders. But I’ll be taking yours whenever you can make it here.”

“Have you seen me here before?” “Does it look like what you know?”

I look around me. I have to be honest. “This is not my room. So where?”

“Your drink? I told you it’s coming. I told you, honey.” Lorraine sounds like she’s shouting, and I’m not even talking to her.

I like this new waitress even though I don’t know her. I feel like I know her. Something about her reminds me of somebody, maybe it’s her nose.

“Well I want you to relax,” she says. “Take your time and enjoy yourself.”

“Are you going to serve in the dining room?” I ask.

“No ma’am. Right here. It’s a simple place, but at least it’s mine.” “I don’t know how I’ll find my way back here.”

I look down and there are car keys in my hand. Something is jingling. I think they are keys. Or loose change. Maybe I’ve dropped them. There is a white sheet or something like it in my car. It’s soft, but it’s tangled around my legs. I can’t move. “My daughter can drive me,” I say to the woman. “I know she can find it, she’s good at finding things.”

The Sweet By and By
243

“Have you made up your mind?” She touches the pencil point to her tongue, then licks her lips and swallows.

“Yes ma’am I have. I’m going to pass on the specials. I think I’d just like a cup of coffee and something sweet.”

I turn to Lorraine. “Don’t you want something sweet?” “ ’Scuse me?”

“Just tell her what you want,” I say.

“Who, Miss Margaret? I’m the only one here.” Lorraine leans down to my ear.

I do not like her tone of voice, so I choose not to answer. That is my choice.

“Here, eat one of these. I’m going down the hall for a minute,” someone says, and whisks out of my room. I like a shoe that makes some noise when you walk. Lets people know you’re coming.

I take a Fig Newton off the tray that is suspended across my lap and try to have a bite without crumbling it. I’m lying down too far. I never said I wanted to lie down. I much prefer sitting up in a restaurant. I’d like to be sitting.

“Let’s go on down to the dining room directly.” It sounds like Lor- raine’s voice, but I am already in a restaurant.

c h a p t e r tw e n ty- e igh t

Lorraine

I

pull my chair close to the one where she’s dozing. A squeak on the f loor tiles makes her open her eyes. “How long have you been sitting there?” she asks, halfway mad but welcoming, as usual. In what looks like slow motion, she grabs at the air around

her head, like she’s tryin to catch a mosquito.

“I’ve been waitin for you to wake up to feed you dinner,” I say. “Ann’s not here.”

“No honey, just me, just Lorraine.”

“Yes, and she won’t come back unless I call her.”

“You know that’s no such of a thing,” I remind her. “She comes down here near ’bout every day.”

“Well I don’t see her.”

“I’m not gon argue with you right now, Miss Margaret.” “All you want to do is argue with me ever since I’ve known

you.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that either.” I laugh, she has always liked to hear me laugh. “Here now, let me help you eat something. You barely ate anything this morning except a couple mouthfuls of cereal.” She is grabbing at air again; it’s almost graceful, like she’s dancing sitting down.

“I’ve never seen so many strings hanging in my life, Lor- raine.” She makes a sweep in front of her face and mine. “You

all need to clean out in here, get some scissors and cut them. I can’t see one thing through all these strings.”