Almost Crimson (8 page)

THIRTEEN

FLAGPOLE

 

 

WHEN HER FIRST YEAR OF college ended, Carla continued her discussions with Sandra about street soldiers and sideways politics with letters throughout the summer. By the Fourth of July, the two were trading letters weekly, Sandra with reports of her clandestine adventure in Chicago and Carla with quotes and historical misinformation she'd researched in the library.

When Uncle John delivered Carla to Greyhound for her return to campus in the fall, he pulled her suitcase from the truck bed and walked it into the depot. Hugging his niece, he wished her luck and told her again how proud he was of her.

“Don't you go scarin' them professors with all your revolution talk,” Uncle John teased as Carla stood with her bag.

“I have more reason to be afraid of them and what they're trying
not
to teach me,” Carla said, quite seriously, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss her uncle on the cheek. He shook his head and chuckled, heading back to his truck.

Carla launched her sophomore year with a new confidence and more fervor than her freshman year. She greeted dormmates, joined study groups right away, even spread out a blanket on the mall some afternoons to read. Sandra wasn't on campus for the first two weeks. Her parents had discovered her summer had been spent campaigning and protesting in Chicago, and not attending a leadership camp in Milwaukee, as she'd led them to believe. They were undecided about allowing her to return to college until the last minute.

Carla was leaving the library with one of her study groups one afternoon when someone called her name from across the mall. She turned toward the voice and squinted at two figures near the flagpole. The woman's outline resembled Sandra's but was missing her roommate's signature bouffant. Moving towards one another, Carla could tell the second figure belonged to a man and the first, indeed, belonged to her roommate, with some sort of hat on her head.

As they closed the yardage between them, Carla could see it was the young man who wore the hat. He was compact and strong looking, like the cousin who might always be asked to help move wood and boxes, or the handy church member who was good at repairs. His skin was the color of molasses, and his face was stern. His eyes were dark and potent, like pot liquor.

“You'll see. She's solid,” Sandy was saying, somewhat winded. The two friends embraced and pulled apart to regard one another: Carla's new rebellious slacks and Sandra's new afro.

“I think I love it,” Carla said.

“Just wait 'til I get my hands on that head of yours,” Sandra said.

Although Carla giggled with her friend, all of the nerves and pores and follicles and cells in her body were drawn to the man standing to the side of them.

“Carla, this is Q,” Sandra said. “He worked Chicago this summer, too. Powerful, conscious brother. I wanted him to meet you before he had to go back to Detroit.”

“Nice to meet you,” Carla said. Extending her hand, she made sure her grip was confident and firm, the way Aunt Margaret had taught her.

A handshake tells a man whether he's meeting a damsel or a dame.

“Q,” Sandra continued, “Carla is the brains behind all that material we used in the rally speeches.”

Q accepted her handshake, casting down his black milk eyes to look at their clasped hands. He looked up at Carla again with a slight glimmer.

He must like dames.

“Thank you,” Q said, releasing her hand. “You helped us make a powerful impact this summer.”

A whip of electricity sailed between them, and Carla saw her roommate pinch a thin, knowing smile.

“If you can stand to be stuck in the heartland for a few more hours,” Sandra said to Q, moving between them to link all of their elbows, “I say we go grab some burgers and tell Carla all about Chicago.”

Carla's heart jumped.

Q's face remained stern, except for his eyes. Dark and intense, Carla felt the full wattage of his gaze ratchet between each and every one of her nerve endings. She wasn't sure what happened beneath that waving flag, but Carla felt the first stitch begin to unravel inside her.

 

Carla's Greyhound trips home went from weekly to monthly in that second year and, by the summer, she was gone. She'd told Uncle John about a summer internship she'd won and that she'd be staying on campus over the summer. John was wary but still proud of her.

“You gots to give yourself a rest from all your studies, don'tcha?” he'd asked.

“Not to get where I'm going, Uncle John,” Carla told him. “Plus, I have to work twice as hard as these white people to get there.”

These white people.
That was the last conversation John had with his niece in person. She wrote a few letters from campus over the summer and fall, and then postcards came with no return address. The postcards and scant letters were filled with updates on marches, uprising, community service projects, and “we.” He drove up to the college when the trees were bare to learn Carla had not returned to campus for her third year. John gave mumbled reports of her whereabouts at the family gatherings, but everyone stopped asking when they saw how much it was hurting him to talk about it.

After a year, when Carla would have been loading into his blue pickup for her senior year at MacMurray, a young man appeared on Uncle John's porch. He referred to himself as Carla's husband. He had extended his hand to John, like a new man, and John stared at him. How could this boy travel all this way, to his home, and not have Carla with him? What kind of man asks for a woman's hand in marriage after the ceremony? Without his bride?

The boy tried to explain Carla's instructions, that she didn't want to return to Decatur until she could explain it all; that she was afraid Uncle John and the rest of the family wouldn't understand; that there was still so much work to be done.

“What kind of work is more important than lettin' her family lay eyes on her after all this time?” John asked, his hands balled into fists. He wanted to snatch this boy by the collar, pull him close, let him smell the terror and venom on his breath, but the boy was only doing his niece's bidding. John knew this, remembered his own helpless surrender of loving Margaret.

As the boy spoke, in his book-polished tongue, John flashed to how his feet had trembled inside his church shoes on the Tuesday he went to meet Margaret's parents. John had prayed he didn't reek of the ranch where he worked dehorning bulls or that he didn't leak all of his Arkansas onto their polished floors. Margaret's parents had lace doilies on the couch and opera music playing on a record player. John had been alone, too. Margaret had wanted her father to see John as a man, brave enough to face them on his own. She'd always believed in the core of him.

Carla must believe in this boy, John thought. He fought himself to listen to the boy, describing their work in
the struggle
and the life they wanted to build together. They would return to college after a year, they boy had said. They would also have a big church wedding then. Right now, they were in love; they were living in accordance to God; and they were committed to making a better world for blacks.

John didn't want to like this boy. Not one bit. But he did. He knew his Bluebell did, too.

“When is she coming home . . . to visit?” John asked, choking down the last part.

“We're planning to come home this summer,” the boy had said. “Coming here and visiting my family in Detroit.”

“Detroit?”

“Yessir,” the boy said. “My parents have a small sundry shop. Pop is a deacon at the church. We know you all have worried, but I wanted to meet you and assure you face to face—man to man—that I am doing right by your niece and doing my very best to look after her.”

John felt his temples and nostrils flare, but the boy did not flinch. He stood planted in his dress shoes and black slacks and thick Afro, waiting for John's worst. John took a deep breath and invited the boy inside. Through the evening, they talked about Motown, baseball, four-barrel carburetors, the Book of Revelation, and the man being the head of his home. They shared a few glasses of whiskey and a plate of fish. John insisted the boy wait until the morning to drive on.

“I suppose Carla don't want me to know where you's livin'?” John asked the following day, as the boy shook his hand on his porch.

“No, she doesn't,” the boy said. “But I'll tell you we're still in Illinois, close enough and far enough away from Chicago and the state line. Neither one of us cared for Chicago as a place to live forever. We're thinking about our roots now, sir. Was able to find us a nice, clean apartment, and I'm making ends meet working nearby at a butcher shop. My daddy taught me a thing or two about carving meat.”

John smiled at the boy, hearing an echo of his own appeal to Margaret's father so many years ago. Before he sent the boy on his way, he disappeared into his bedroom and came out with a tattered envelope, thick with papers.

“A lot of people in my wife's family done worked hard to make sure all they kin is provided for,” John said to the boy, handing him the envelope. “I don't know 'bout yo' people, but I never knew of such a thing. I was grateful, by God, and blessed. Tell my Bluebell I will respect her wishes and wait until summertime to talk to her. Trusting you to keep her safe 'til then, Quentin.”

John received a short letter from Carla within the week, thanking him for the insurance papers and gushing about her two favorite men. Summer came and went, and John never heard from either Carla or Quentin again. The rest of the McCalls sealed away Carla's name, even after John's death. It would be years before her name would be spoken again.

FOURTEEN

BALONEY

 

 

My name is Te'Pamela. I go by Pam. Welcome to the McKissick School of Torture. Your sentence is every Saturday for the rest of your life! What's your name? What grade are you in? I'm in fifth grade. I hate social studies. I get all As in math. What's your best subject? Are you an only child, too? I like not having brothers and sisters. Sometimes I wish there was another person for Mama to yell at. Haha! Where's your mother? OK. This is a whole bunch of questions. Write me back!

Pam

• • •

My name is CeCe. My whole name is Crimson Celeste, but CeCe is easier. I'm in fifth grade, too. I go to Neil Armstrong Elementary. I don't live over here. I live on Fountain Drive. I don't have any brothers or sisters, either. I don't think I like it much anymore. Do you like to read? That's my best subject. Reading and English. I do OK in math. I just don't like it very much. What's your favorite color? Mine is yellow. When is your birthday? Mine was September 25. I'm really 11! I can't wait to be 18. That's when they say I can leave. Which Jackson do you like best?

CeCe

• • •

I love the Sylvers! The Jacksons are good, too. Randy is so fine! Foster Sylver is the finest! I'm not allowed to listen to world music (what Mama calls music she doesn't like). Only clean songs. Sylvers, Osmonds, gospel, old Motown, stuff like that. Does your mother let you listen to the radio? I can't wait to be 18 either! I'm going to college, then I'm moving to Paris. They love Black people in Paris. I heard that in a movie. I don't mind reading. It just takes me a long time to read a whole book. I don't always like to sit still for so long. I can sit still for a movie though! I love movies. Mama lets me watch movies on TV. On Friday nights, they play the big movies. With no cussing. I don't know what's so wrong with cussing. I'm not a baby! I can hear SHIT FUCK HELL DAMN. My birthday is April 11. You just had a birthday! Now that we're friends, I can be invited to your party next year! Ha! Ha! Do you like piano?

Pam

• • •

Piano is OK. It's hard though. I thought Ms. McKissick was going to be mean. She's nice. I'd rather learn to paint or pottery or something. I like making things. I went to camp this summer (yuck!) and we made stuff every day. I liked that part. I liked the lake, too. I liked walking in the woods. That's it. Everything else about camp was terrible. You're going to college? Are you rich? Maybe I can visit your mansion one day! I don't watch movies. I bet I'd like them. I don't do a lot of things. I want to. I never thought about living in another country. Not even another state. I would be scared. Are you scared of anything? I hate spiders.

CeCe

• • •

I'm not scared of spiders or mice or stuff like that. Mama makes me kill the bugs that get in the apartment. She's so big and bad but can't step on a spider! She makes me laugh. That's why I don't pay her any attention, most of the time. She's been yelling and bossing me around ever since I was a little kid. I remember when she wasn't so big and bad. I remember when she was just bad. We had a really rough life before she got saved. We had lots of secrets and stuff. Made my stomach hurt all the time. When she started going to church, I started to feel better. She changed from being scary to being saved. Both were hard on me! Haha! But I'd choose this every time. You didn't answer me about your mother. I hope she didn't die. I'm sorry, if she did. Do you live with your father? You should curl your hair. We're too big for two ponytails.

Pam

• • •

I never tried to curl my hair before. Do I look dumb? I didn't know how to make anything else but ponytails. A lady in my building showed me how to make curlers from paper bags. It was pretty easy, but my mother said I have to leave them in overnight for the curls to stay. Funny. She hasn't taught me many things. This therapy stuff must be working. See? She's not dead. She's just been acting like it on the inside. She sees a brain doctor while I'm at piano. Three more months. I didn't know my daddy. He died in Vietnam. My mama misses him a lot. Makes her so sad she can't get out of bed some days. It gets worse every year. I don't remember her being like this when I was little. She used to make me laugh and give me big hugs. I like what you said about being glad things are getting better, but not forgetting that things weren't always this way. I'm glad she's getting help from Dr. Harper, but it's been so hard and so unfair for such a long time. I try really hard not to be mad all the time. Yeah, secrets suck! Haha! I'll keep your secrets safe, though. You'll keep mine too, right? Does your school dress up for Halloween? I might be a movie star or something.

CeCe

• • •

I'm sorry about your daddy. I don't know mine. He's part of my mother's “bad” years, I guess. I'm not allowed to ask about him anymore. She said I wouldn't like him very much anyway. This might be mean, but I don't think she knows who he is. She would tell me different things. He was a teacher, then he was a drummer, then he was dark-skinned, then he was light-skinned. There was always a new uncle coming around when I was little. Not really. She just told me to call them uncle. Another secret . . . my mother used to do drugs and stuff. It was always scary then. Strange people. Strange apartments. Strange everything. We even lived in a shelter for homeless people once. That place was so nasty. Someone who worked there said the state would make me live in foster care. My mother started to change. We went to a special house for women and their kids. She met with a therapist, too. It helped her stop doing drugs. She started going to church. Then someone got her a job at a dentist's office. We moved away from the city all the way out to Birchwood. She always says, “You have to do different to be different.” She says smart stuff like that all time, when she's not yelling about something. Haha! Don't worry about your mother. She's gonna be OK. We have costumes at school. I'm not allowed. Mama said it's devil worship. Oh well . . . Hey, your hair looks good!

Pam

• • •

I can't believe we have so much in common! Maybe we're twins! Haha! I'm already sad about ending piano lessons. (Well, not piano . . . ) Mama only has two more months left of her therapy. Do you have a phone? Are you allowed to talk on the phone?

CeCe

• • •

Yes! We have a phone. I'm allowed to talk after I do my homework. Here's my number: 683-9821. Call me on Tuesday. We have choir practice on Tuesday. She's always in a good mood when she gets to have choir practice.

Pam

• • •

It was cool to talk to you on the phone. Your voice is deep like a grown-up! You didn't get in trouble, did you? Sounded like your mother was mad. Are you a good singer? I sing like Whitney Houston . . . but only in the shower. Haha! What did you ask for Christmas?

CeCe

• • •

I got my Atari! A good report card spends like money! Remember that, CeCe!! Haha! I had another great idea (you know me, girlfriend)—let's have a sleepover!!! I think Mama will say yes. Christmastime makes her loosen up. Hallelujah! I love you CeCe! I'm so glad you're my best friend! Did you get your best gift?

Pam

• • •

I'm glad you're my best friend too. A slumber party???!!!??? Yes, I just got my best gift.

CeCe

• • •

CeCe spent the night at Pam's house at least once a month for the next year. On a slumber weekend before the end of the school year, CeCe and Pam admired their experimental hairdos when Pam's mother called from the den.

“Te'Pamela,” she called, “what's the name of that new Richard Pryor movie?”

“Umm . . . ” Pam called back, staring at the wall separating her from her mother's voice. CeCe watched Pam drum the barrel of the curling iron, visibly straining her memory for a movie title. CeCe continued to pack up the barrettes, bobby pins, and gels.

“Bustin' Out?” Pam said.

“Loose,” her mother yelled back through the wall. “Bustin' Loose.” Pam and CeCe heard her mother repeat the movie title to someone on the phone. Pam said her mother had been on the phone a lot lately.

“I don't know who Mama's been gabbing to,” Pam said, “but they're keeping her off my ass.”

“Maybe we should start handing out your number to strangers and install a switchboard,” CeCe whispered back, launching the two girls into a giggling fit of pantomimes and half-finished sentences.

While they clutched their stomachs, trying to steady their breath, CeCe smiled at their visual. Best friends laughing heartily after an afternoon of beautifying and girl talk, relaxed and worry-free.

Once in the family room, the girls bunkered in with chips, Kool-Aid, and pizza, less the four slices Pam's mother always took first as the “pizza sponsor.” The girls stretched on the floor in front for TV waiting for the Friday night movie to start. A commercial interrupted their banter:

“I don't know, Becky,” one woman said, leaning conspiratorially to her friend across a small cafe table. “Sometimes I don't feel . . . fresh.”

“I know what you mean,” the friend said in a confident whisper. “I have those days, too. But you know what I use . . . ”

CeCe and Pam giggled.

“She just nasty,” CeCe said, angling a pizza slice into her mouth.

Pam laughed, taking a sip from her cup. “It's not nasty,” she said to CeCe. “it's—uh—natural.”

Pam kept her eyes on the screen and CeCe kept her eyes peeled on Pam. Both girls started to smile the longer Pam pretended to ignore CeCe's glare.

CeCe finally shoved Pam in the shoulder, toppling her over. “Come off it!” CeCe commanded.

Pam's mother bellowed from her bedroom. “Y'all better not be tearing up nothin' in there.”

“No, ma'am,” Pam called back, suppressing a laugh as CeCe shoved her again.

“Give it up, I said,” CeCe said.

“OK, OK,” Pam said, rolling away from CeCe's third shove. “Well, ever since I started my period I worry about smelling bad.”

CeCe wrinkled her nose. “You smell bad?”

“No, but I don't want to,” Pam said. “The school nurse said our bodies have natural odors. Women have a scent that's natural. She said it's the fluids that, y'know, coat our—y'know, stuff.”

“Like bicycle oil?” CeCe teased.

They laughed. “I guess so,” Pam said.

“If it doesn't smell bad,” CeCe said, “then what's it like?”

Pam munched on her pizza while she considered. “Baloney.”

CeCe stared. “Baloney?” she said. “Like . . . baloney?”

Pam nodded, and the girls howled with laughter.

The two kept laughing and talking until the feature movie began to play. Their conversation shifted from school nurses to school rules to school dances to, of course, boys. Hours after the movie ended and the network had signed off, the girls were nudged awake and herded, half-sleeping, into Pam's room.

The next morning, CeCe was dropped off at home while Pam and her mother went on to church. It used to be the rule for CeCe to attend with them, if she stayed the night on a Saturday instead of their usual Friday.

CeCe hadn't been to church enough to decide whether or not she liked it. Mrs. Anderson had taken CeCe to her church once. That had been nice. It reminded her of the white clapboard churches described in
The Color Purple
. Going to church with Pam and her mother was different. Pam's mother entered the massive building like a battlefield. They stopped, first, by the hallway bulletin board, where she would jot down names from the “Sick and Shut-in” list. Pam explained her mother would always say extra prayers for them, the way strangers had to have said prayers for them once upon a time.

This morning, Pam's mother allowed additional time to detour and take CeCe home.

“She said she couldn't stand watching you sit comatose through another service,” Pam said as they slipped on their shoes. “She said if you haven't taken to it by now, it's not her place to make you.”

“Oh,” CeCe replied. It was true she tended to zone out after the choir's first selection. “Was she mad?”

“Not really,” Pam said, smoothing the edge of her blanket. “I guess she thought she was helping, since your mother doesn't, y'know, take you to church.”

Stung, CeCe said, “My mother doesn't take me shopping, either. Tell Gwen she can jump on that, too, if she really wants to help out.”

“Slow your roll, cowgirl,” Pam said with a warning in her voice. “You know Mama was only looking out. She's not dissing your  mother.”

CeCe let out a slow breath and mumbled an apology. She wondered when the knee-jerk protection for her mother would calm itself.