Third Girl from the Left (30 page)

N
OW THAT TAM WAS GROWN AND GONE AND
barely talking to them, Sheila had to admit that she missed her, though she'd never thought of herself as that child's mother. More like her much older sister or something. That goofy way she had of going around filming everything, that stupid baseball cap, her unwillingness to be a silly, overgrown girl. God only knew where she got that. And she and Angie had ridden her about it plenty. But secretly, Sheila kind of admired it. Tamara would never end up stuffed into a skimpy costume, dodging hands. She was sure she was meant to make the pictures, not be in them. God only knew where she got that either.

As Tam grew up and she and Angie got older, Sheila couldn't help but notice that Tam was right about one thing: men did decide everything in Hollywood and lots of other places too. And there were an awful lot of half-naked women used to sell everything, and the half-naked women (she should know, she'd been one of them) never did get paid as much as the men at the top in the suits. It was funny she'd learned all this from Tam because she'd never even meant to have a child. Angie either. And yet there they were. They'd raised this girl. The two of them. Dancing around the living room together, getting whatever jobs they could, raising a baby girl. Who'd have thought that possible?

Just like what she'd decided to do since Angie went off to see to her mama seemed impossible. This girl, Heather, down at the office, kept telling her and telling her about this program at Los Angeles City College for people who hadn't gone to college at the usual time. Heather reminded Sheila of Tamara: she gave that same impression that she could have what she wanted if she worked hard enough, like she deserved something good. Sheila wasn't used to seeing a black girl who really felt like that. She sure hadn't felt like that when she was their age. But she liked it. That's why she went along with Heather's coaxing and signed up for a class. They had this special program for people over fifty. She had to admit that she was over fifty to get in, but she figured she didn't have to go telling everybody that. She just admitted it to get in to the program. She couldn't wait to tell Angie about it, called her the morning after the first class. It was an English class; they were reading
The Bluest Eye
, that book Oprah had recommended awhile ago. Sheila, who hadn't read a book since the Bunny training manual, found she absolutely could not stop reading. She finished at 4:00 in the morning, her eyes grainy with fatigue and red from crying, holding the book to her chest. Then she turned it over to look at the author photo. Then she held it to her chest again. She waited until it was late enough in the morning to call. Angie answered on the first ring. Sheila pictured her eyes half-closed against the smoke of her cigarette, the way she was probably sitting, one leg folded up underneath her, as she held the phone. She missed her.

“Angie, girl, how you doing? How's your mama?”

“Sheila! I'm so glad you called. I . . . it's been weird. You know how long it's been since I've seen her.”

“I know. How is it?”

“It's kind of all right. She's too old to be picking with me so much anymore, you know?” She stopped. “And I guess I'm past needing to pick with her all the time too. It feels different. I'm glad I came, to tell the truth. I think I'da been sorry if I hadn't. You know what happened the other day?”

“What?”

“I was in her room, just sitting with her, and I got bored and so I started changing the channels around, and guess what was on?”

“Just tell the story, girl, all right?”

“
Splendor in the Grass
! I ain't seen that in years. In years. Mama sits up and I leaned right in and we were watching it, and she said, “You know, I never did see what you saw in that Warren Beatty,' and I said, ‘Mama, look at him. Come on, he's perfect,' and she said, ‘
You
say.' But then she said, “You always did know your own mind, girl. You something else. Like to kill me. But you something else.' And then guess what I said.”

“What?” Sheila cradled the phone as though she were cradling Angela.

“‘I love you, Mama.'” She paused, her voice soft. “Been more than thirty years since I said that. And she told me she loved me too. Didn't look at me or nothing. Just staring at the screen. But she said it. That's something, huh?”

“Yeah, Angie. That's something.” A silence. Then Sheila spoke again.

“Y'all talking OK? You and Tam. How's she taking it?”

“Well, she's mad at me, you know. ‘Why didn't you bring me to meet her sooner? Why didn't we come to Grandpa's funeral?' That kind of stuff. I guess I should of. You know. I should of. Just too hard. Well. They getting along good, though. Tam's in there almost every day filming her. You know her and that damn camera. But Mama don't mind. It's funny. I think she kind of like it. She ain't perking up like we hoped, though. They thought she'd be doing better by now.”

Sheila heard the anxiety in her lover's voice. She said what she knew would help. “Well, you know, you don't need to rush back. We all right for money. I got a little bit saved. If old Doc Gillespie get funny with you about not coming back right away, we'll get by. You'd always be sorry if you didn't do the right thing now. You know that, right?”

“You know, Sheil, I finally do. Thank you, baby. I do need to stay. I don't know. I still can't talk to her, you know. But I need her to know I'm here. I need to be here.”

“Right.” Sheila paused. “Listen. I got some news too.”

“Aw, girl, you ain't pregnant is you?” They both howled with laughter. “Seriously, Sheil, what's up?”

“I'm . . . I'm going to college.” She rushed on. “I told you about this girl Heather at my job, right? She told me about this program at LACC for people . . . well, people our age. And you get to go real cheap, and then it's free when you're sixty, and I just read this book, the first book I read . . . well, you know I don't read, and it was called
The Bluest Eye
, and I just cried and cried. Girl, you've got to read it. You've got to read it. This might be all right. College. I never thought I'd go to college.”

Angela was quiet for a long time. When she spoke she said, “You ain't gonna get so smart you won't be interested in me, will you?”

“That could never happen. You my girl for good.”

More silence. “You don't think I could do that program, do you?”

“I don't know why not. We both been lying about our ages for the last thirty years, but I know how old you is, heifer. You old enough.”

“I'ma think about it. Really, Sheil. Don't want you passing me up.”

“Never happen, Angie Bangie.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Sheila held the phone to her ear, not speaking. Angela did the same. They sat that way for a long time.

F
ROM THE DAY I HAD THEM, I LOVED THEM, DIDN'T
always like them. But I loved them. Angie most of all. She was the easiest one, the aching and the sweating and the pushing and then the tearing rush. She was born with a caul. Special, the old ladies always said. Gonna have second sight. I don't know. She always saw me, right from the first. Only one of the three of them who always saw me. She saw me better than J.L. too. And I saw her. She didn't know it. I couldn't tell her. But I did. Only other person it was like that with was William and I couldn't keep either of them for nothing in this world. Anybody sees you like that, anybody you see like that, it's just too clear. It's so clear, it's like before the burning when my mama took me down home with her one summer and I went in a lake down there, a green one, so deep that it was up over my head. I felt the water go all up between my legs and in me and in my ears and when I opened my eyes, I was part of the water, part of the little silver fish going by part of the bitter green cold, and I felt myself going all out into the water until I wasn't there anymore. When you see somebody like that and they see you, it almost hurts, same as swimming in that cold, cold water did. Like you disappeared.

This new girl, my daughter's daughter. I recognize her. We could be like that. But I ain't strong enough for it anymore. Got to give her what I can before I go. William taught me that. J.L. did too. Always gave what they could, both of them. Her mama ain't learned it yet. Always running. I did what I could for her. All those Saturdays in the dark together. Wish it had been enough. I surely do. I wish they knew how much I loved them. I don't know if I ever did tell them that so they could hear it. Some folks just can't hear it no matter how you say it. I don't know. Wish I could tell them about the color of the sky. The silver fish. The bitter green water. What it takes to truly see it. I wish they knew. I surely wish I could tell them.

I
COULDN'T STOP SHOOTING GRANDMA. I FELT—NO, I
knew—I was getting a story that I would have looked right past if it wasn't for that time we spent breathing together, looking over my camera, enjoying a well-made machine. I had never met another woman who loved my camera as much as I did. I couldn't believe that that woman was my grandmother.

We talked and talked. I shot and shot. Jolene and Mama looked at us both skeptically but didn't stop us. After that first day, she told me more about William, shy at first but then softly admitting how much she loved him, even though it had caused great pain. Even though she loved my grandfather too. She didn't tell me whether or not they'd “had an affair.” But that part didn't seem to matter: “Not everyone gets to love somebody like that,” she said. “I was lucky. Wish I could have held on to him somehow. I miss him still.” Then she pressed her lips together and stopped talking for a little while. She told me about Jacob Lawrence too. She showed me the old catalogue she had and told me how much she would have loved to see one of his pictures for real. “I did a little painting myself. Just tried to teach myself,” she said, her hands moving over and over the cover of the book unconsciously. “It's hard. I don't know . . . I did some things I liked. But it's hard.”

“It's hard getting it right,” I said.

“It surely is.” Her hands stopped. “Here.” She shoved the book toward me. “I want you to have this.”

“What?” I didn't pick up the book. Still shooting.

“I want you to have this. Take it. Put that camera down and take it.”

I did, shaking. “You take care of that now,” she said.

“I will.” Then she lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, her signal that we were finished for the day.

 

A couple of days later, I asked her about the riot. I'd been going down to the library, looking through old archives, getting more and more freaked out. I knew I was going to have to ask her, on camera, but I was afraid of what she'd say. Finally, as we sat alone one sunny day in the backyard, she in her wheelchair, I at Aunt Jolene's picnic table, I asked her.

“Grandma, you were in the riot, weren't you.” It wasn't a question.

Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, and her eyes filled with tears. But then she turned her gaze to me, immutable, and her voice was firmer than I'd ever heard it. “You get your mama. You get your mama and then you ask me again.”

I was startled, but the steel in her voice left no alternative. Still holding my camera, I went in the house and called Mama. She came out, blinking in the sunlight, a copy of
Entertainment Weekly
in her hand. “What? Is everything all right?” she said. Without us ever discussing it, she had stayed out of the time I spent with Grandma.

“Yeah, everything's fine. Grandma wants you out here now.” I still didn't quite know what was going on. We both walked back to my grandmother. She gazed at the lawn, lost in memory.

“You got your mama?”

“Yes'm, I do. She's sitting right there.”

“Got that camera on?”

“Yes'm”

“Ask me that question again.”

So I did. Were you in the riot?

She turned her head and looked directly at Mama, her eyes unwavering and clear. “Yes, I was. They killed my mama, Anna Mae Stableford. Liked to kill my daddy and me. But they shot her dead in front of me. I was eight years old.” Mama gasped. The only other sound was the flutter of the magazine falling to the ground and the caw of a faraway crow.

My hands were shaking, but I didn't stop. I knew she didn't want me to. “Tell me about it.”

She told us her story. Five minutes or five hours, I had no idea how long she talked. I didn't think how I'd use it. I only listened. Mama only listened too; occasionally I heard a low moan from her, but that was all. My grandmother told the whole thing, barely pausing for breath, tears running freely down her face. When she finished, she said, “Your mama has the picture. The picture of my mama. The only one we had left. My daddy kept it for me, and I gave it to her.” She took a deep breath. I looked at mama, whispered, “On your bureau?” She nodded. Grandma went on. “I ain't never had the strength to talk about it. Neither did her daddy. We was young. Everybody knew. But nobody talked about it. We didn't know what to say. I'm sorry about that now. But now you know. You got it right in that thing, that camera. And one more thing. There's a work shed out back of my house. Jolene can tell you where. It's got a lock on it. You go on and cut that lock off. If Jolene or Otis give you a hard time, tell them I asked you to. You do that for me, all right, Tamara?”

“I will, Grandma.”

She sat back in her chair, relieved. “You do that for me. We all done now?”

“Yes, ma'am. We're done.”

“Take me back inside then, I need to lay down.”

My mother just sat there, ankles crossed, sun gleaming her smoothly weaved hair, magazine at her feet. She didn't even look up as I wheeled Grandma past her. Once I got her settled, I came back out, camera in hand. Never drop the camera. I pointed it toward my mother. “Well?” I said.