Boy, Snow, Bird (30 page)

(Fourteen years old. So close to Bird’s age. Too close.)

Olivia gave Gerald’s sleeve a brisk tug, to remind him he was in mixed company and that people were trying to eat. He lowered his voice a little: “But you, John Baxter, you know that the men who killed Emmett Till didn’t do a single second of jail time on account of that murder. And you, a Kentucky man yourself, not even a Northerner . . . you say you scared white women for fun. Didn’t you value your life? Didn’t you see that if the authorities didn’t give a damn about you, you had to give that much more of a damn about yourself? I don’t know what you think of me, and I don’t much care, but I’ll thank you not to sit at my table and brag about your stupidity.”

Clara laid her knife and fork down, and placed her hands in her lap. She and John made a painfully obvious point of not
looking at each other. They seemed more embarrassed for Gerald than insulted on their own behalves. Arturo said: “Now wait a minute, Dad—” but John shook his head. “Your pa was just speaking his mind. I wasn’t bragging, Mr. Whitman. It didn’t matter too much whether I was deliberately following them or whether I just happened to be going their way, those women would’ve been just as scared regardless, so why not make a joke out of it? I guess I had some form of death wish, and I knew just how little anyone who looks like me has to do to get killed. I saw the face that Emmett Till was left with. I want you to know that I wasn’t bragging.”

Clara had shifted her chair so that her shoulder rested against John’s, but she still didn’t look at him. The two of them kept right on facing Gerald, who muttered something about John still needing to take more time to think before he spoke.

I’d hoped that Bird was too busy reciting Spanish poetry to her father to overhear that particular exchange, but the kid dashed those hopes of mine by suddenly asking me if I had a pen. I said I didn’t, and that there was to be no leaving the table in search of one, either. I know I can’t keep my daughter from tracking down that picture of Emmett Till’s remains lying in their casket—Mia will probably show it to her, if nobody else will—but I can make it harder for Bird’s grief to begin. I doubt she’ll believe that I share it; not at first, maybe not for a while. It’s been thirteen years since the murder, but for Bird the news would be minutes old. I’ve tried to tell her a few things I’ve figured out, but I can see that she doesn’t get what I’m saying, it’s like I’m just bothering her, all she hears is mumbling. The three things I know:

First, I’m with Bird in any Them versus Us situation she or anyone cares to name.

Second, it’s not whiteness itself that sets Them against Us, but the worship of whiteness. Same goes if you swap whiteness out for other things—fancy possessions for sure, pedigree, maybe youth too . . . I’m still of two minds about that.

Third, we beat Them (and spare ourselves a lot of tedium and terror) by declining to worship.

Bird needs time. I hope I’ll remember thinking this if she ever comes to disbelieve that I love her. No revelation is immediate, not if it’s real. I feel that more and more.

When it was time for each of us to say what we were thankful for, Agnes thanked Clara and John for taking such good care of Snow “for us.”

Clara didn’t raise her voice, but the aftermath was just as if she’d yelled and smashed her wineglass. “For you? We did it for Snow.”

Bird nodded at her. She’s growing up into a huntress, every line in her clear and strong. She got her eyes from me, and when I talk, she dissects me with my own gaze. That’s gratitude for you. Her first period came, and she called me into the bathroom. She was sitting on the can with her knees pressed together and her underpants in her hand, and she showed me the blood with an expression that asked me how she could possibly be expected to tolerate this level of inconvenience. I remembered her at six years old; she came home from her first day at elementary school and wanted to know who she could speak to about not having to go there anymore. She was sure that there was some official type
who took you off the school register if you just went to them and explained that you didn’t like it. I wouldn’t have minded a tender mother-daughter moment in which I reassured us both that she was still my little girl, but in reality I had to say “Welcome to womanhood” quite assertively, maybe even aggressively, for fear she wouldn’t accept it otherwise. I’m leaving it to Arturo to give her the talk about fooling around with boys and waiting until she’s sure that the boy respects her. Louis is well brought up and their friendship strikes me as genuine, but he’s older than she is, and his friends set each other stupid dares. Those knuckleheads think they invented pig Latin. About three years ago Arturo got wistful about not having a son. I told him we could look into adopting a boy and he said: “Let me ask you something, Boy. Where do you get the balls to bluff the way you do?”

At the dinner table John began to tell another story from the good old days (this one had a carefully edited sound to it), but Bird reached across the table and pushed the edge of Vivian’s dinner plate with her fork. “What’s that in your cranberry sauce?”

Vivian hurriedly stabbed at the subject of Bird’s inquiry with her fork and flipped it into a paper napkin, but Clara declared: “Hair.”

“Hair?” Gerald said, and Vivian looked ready to die. A couple more sizeable clumps fell onto her turkey as her fingers fluttered nervously around her glossy beehive hairdo, and Arturo and I gazed at each other with dread. For my part I was sure this drastic shedding signaled a serious illness, and my memory suddenly opened up an uncomfortable index of all the occasions upon which I hadn’t shown her the kindness she deserved.

Olivia was unimpressed. “What is the meaning of this, Vivian?”

Vivian scraped more hair into her napkin, forced a laugh, and said: “Sorry, Mama—I think it’s the lye. Too strong, or too regularly applied, something like that. But I’m fine”—she glanced at Arturo and reached around the back of Snow’s chair to squeeze his arm—“I’m fine.”

“You always did overdo things, Vivian.” Olivia gestured to Agnes to pass down the wine carafe, but Clara handed the wine to her mother herself, saying: “You always did preach about hair. So tell us, what did Viv overdo? Was she supposed to pass as white, but only just? Was she supposed to come top of her class every time, but only just?”

Olivia very calmly began to remind Clara that we were having a family dinner and that it was unpleasant for everybody when people spoke out of turn, but Vivian took a gulp of wine, rallied, and said: “No, Mama. I want to know. What did I overdo? It’s more than what Clara says. I could go on and on . . .”

Gerald cleared his throat. “That’s enough. You listen to me. All your mama and I wanted was for our children to make some kind of difference in people’s lives. To serve justice, to teach, to do good—Clara, this includes you. Circumstances—we—well. We’ve tried hard to make it easier for you to do those things without people slamming doors in your faces.”

Arturo sighed and said tonelessly: “Thank you.” Gerald turned in his son’s direction with a look of puzzled appeal, but Clara spoke first: “Can you really mean it, Pa, that all folks have to do is look the part? Does Viv get no credit at all from you for
working damn hard and being good at what she does, plain and simple?” Her tone wasn’t aggressive, more idly inquisitive, and she didn’t look her father in the eye, but stared at the square of floral wallpaper above his head, clearly not expecting great things of the halting answer he began to give her.

Olivia leaned forward and snapped: “For God’s sake, wake up from your dream world, Clara. You go and find out how many colored women are pulling down the salary that Vivian is, and we’ll talk about this again.”

John began nodding. “You know she’s got a point there, Clara.”

Olivia half smiled at him and Clara half frowned at him and he said: “Not that passing is the way.”

“That statement would carry far greater weight with me if it had come from someone who stood even a remote chance of passing,” Olivia said.

(From the moment Clara had first spoken up, Agnes Miller had been sadly humming “Sinner Man,” of all songs
. Oh, sinner man . . . where you gonna run to?
Arturo asked her to cut it out and she said: “Cut what out?”

“The humming, Agnes. The humming,” Arturo told her. “We don’t need it right now.”

She stopped, bewildered. “Who was that humming? I didn’t like it, either. Oh . . . I see . . . you’re sure it was me . . . ? I’m so sorry.”)

Olivia looked across the table at Vivian, who’d tied a scarf around her head. “I see now that you must do what you want, Vivian. Stop keeping your hair tidy, if that’s what you think is damaging it—I’ve never had any trouble in that area, but as I say,
do what you want to do. I’m your mother and God knows I’d rather have you well than sick. Do you understand?”

Everybody kept still. I’d become aware of my neck swiveling as I looked at each person who spoke. This watchfulness was partly selfish, I was anticipating an episode of plate hurling and wanted to be sure I wasn’t caught in the crossfire. Snow and Bird hadn’t moved their heads much—it was their gaze that had been traveling from person to person, on opposite sides of the table. But if my daughter and her sister had noticed each other’s expressions, they might’ve been surprised to find that they both looked exactly like Judgment Day.

Vivian walked around the table to her mother’s seat and shyly submitted to being kissed on the forehead. There was also a whispered recital of pet names I never knew she had. Agnes piped up: “I hear they’re beginning to say that black is beautiful now.”

Olivia gave her friend a deeply cynical look and said: “We’ll see. Would anyone like some more of these potatoes? They’re very good, Clara.”

“Fattening, though . . .” Agnes murmured, but Olivia continued: “I hope you’ll let me have the recipe.”

“Sure,” Clara said, in a faint voice. Maybe she couldn’t find the caustic tone she wanted. Brazenness can knock you sideways like that.

—

i volunteered to
clear away the plates once everyone was done eating, and Snow got up to help me. Vivian and Agnes and Olivia
talked over one another.
Oh no no no, Snow, you’re the guest of honor, leave it ’til Phoebe comes tomorrow
—but Clara gave Snow the nod that sent her to the kitchen sink with me.

I meant to ask Snow how she and Bird were getting along. I’d thought they’d be inseparable, but I hadn’t really seen them together. I’d seen Bird roaming the woods with her gang of five, and I’d seen Snow out on the terrace of Flax Hill’s European-style café (European-style as far as any of us could tell, anyhow), smoking cigarettes, hearing out marriage proposals, and giving them marks out of ten. The girls in the group laughed indulgently, knowing that Snow was too nice to want what wasn’t hers, and why not let your boyfriend practice proposing so he’d get it just right for you? The girls’ laughter got a little artificial when Snow dropped her lighter and six or seven of the boyfriends vied to pick it up. Bird’s fifteen-year-old beau couldn’t speak for stammering when he encountered Snow on the porch; yes, of course he did. Here’s what I couldn’t have foreseen—that I’d be anxious for Snow and her sister to be friends. More specifically, I thought it would be better if Bird liked Snow. I couldn’t give a reason for this anxiety; Bird has disliked people before and they’ve been fine. But like everybody else around here, Bird isn’t quite as she was. Maybe the timing of this visit is bad. While Snow’s out in the evening, Bird plays Julia’s lullabies at low volume and sits cross-legged beside the record player, listening with a vacant expression. Arturo asked me if Snow was aware that Bird had borrowed her records, and I mixed him a drink and handed it to him before I answered. “Don’t take this as me bad-mouthing your daughter; I’m not. It’s
not so easy to tell what Snow is and isn’t aware of. She very sweetly keeps those cards close to her chest; I hope you won’t deny that.”

My husband drained his glass, and when he spoke again, it was about Bird, not Snow. He reminded me of how she’d been deeply interested in the Cinderella story for a few months when she was nine years old, how she’d had one or the other of us read it to her a countless number of times and gone to sleep without expressing approval or disapproval until one night when Arturo closed the storybook and she asked: “Is it a true story? Not the fairy godmother stuff and her dress turning back to rags at midnight—I know that’s true. But Cinderella just sweeping up all those ashes every day and never putting them into her stepmother’s food or anything—is that true?” He said he knew it was dangerous to say yes, but another part of him thought
So what—she can’t prove it isn’t true.
Our daughter settled back onto pillows and said pleasantly, “I think they’re lying to us, Dad,” before switching off her bedside lamp to let him know he was dismissed for the night. He said that the way Bird was listening to Julia’s voice reminded him of the way she’d listened to the Cinderella story all those times we’d told it to her. He was understandably concerned, so I told him everything was going to be okay, which was another lie of the Cinderella variety.

The sink was big enough for Snow and me to stand side by side while we soaked and scrubbed all the sauce boats and soup bowls and the swallow-patterned plates. We looked into the dishwater instead of at each other. She trickled water through her fingers.

“Weren’t we here together like this years ago? Only I sat up on
the counter. It was your birthday and you were stirring things and chopping things and begging a cake to rise.”

“That was in the other house.”

She brought both her hands down and punched the water, spraying us both with greasy suds. I took a few steps back in case she was about to run amok, but she went still and kept her eyes averted. I wiped my face with a kitchen towel, decided to work the “game of charades” angle, and said, “Angry?” in the same tone of voice I’d have used to ask
Animal, mineral, or vegetable?

She said: “I’m sorry. Close the door, please. This isn’t like me.”