Duet for Three Hands (22 page)

L
ydia

O
n the last
day of May, the hum of men’s voices hushed when Lydia came through the door of Sam’s barbershop. Half a dozen old men littered the room, three by the window reading newspapers, several playing checkers. A younger man, around the age William would be if he were alive, sat in the barber’s chair getting a shave. She reached for the door handle and turned back to look at the street, her resolve of bravery diminished with the smell of men, cigar smoke, and talcum powder, all of which reminded her of the days William had spent here with these men. He was gone, and they were still here—fully present to disapprove of her decision.

She gripped the door handle tighter. What do I do?

Who cares what they think?
Ah, William’s voice, so distant now, suddenly there in her mind.

“I’m here to have my hair bobbed,” she announced, stepping into the middle of the room. Everyone looked at her at once. Someone cleared his throat.

“Have a seat,” Sam said. “I’m almost done with George here.”

She did so, pulling her long braid over her shoulder and holding it between her fingers, remembering. She thought of her mother’s soft hands braiding it when she was a child. On their wedding night, William had taken out the braid, his eyes hungry as the long locks fell around her bare shoulders. Finally, an image came of her babies, pulling on it with their pudgy fingers while they drank from her breast.

When it was her turn, she scooted into the barber’s chair, smoothing her dress to avoid looking at Sam, fearing she might lose courage if she detected disapproval in his eyes.

“How short?” He held the braid in the air like it was a piece of meat at the butcher shop. Behind them the men were back to their activities but silent, listening.

She took a deep breath, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “To my chin.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Thought you were the old-fashioned type, Mrs. Tyler.”

“Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’m not.”

He reached for his scissors. “Best thing to do is cut the whole braid off at once. Then I can trim around the edges.”

“Fine.”

He pulled the braid out from her neck, until it was straight like an angry cat’s tail, and then without any announcement or formality, cut it. The remainder of her hair fell in uneven sections just below her chin. He held the braid up for her to see. “You wanna keep it?”

“What for?” What would she do with a braid of hair, for heaven’s sake? “Should I hang it next to the dead chickens in my barn?”

He stared at her for a moment before shrugging. “Heard you’re leaving town for a time. Someone keeping an eye on your place?”

“Smitty and June across the creek.”

“Good,” he said, without taking his eyes from her hair. His voice was a touch stern, almost like a warning. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to William’s place while you’re off running around. His mother would turn in her grave anything happened to that ole place.”

Lydia didn’t think William’s mother would have cared two cents about her old home or the piece of red dirt it sat on. She was most likely in heaven with her husband and William, singing with the angels. But she didn’t say anything, knowing it was useless.

He trimmed around her neck and face until her hair was even. When he finished, she looked at herself, surprised. The shorter style made her face look rounder and younger. Her eyes seemed more prominent. It was like looking at a stranger. Her head felt weightless. So did her spirit. Time to move on, she thought.

A
t home Birdie
had left a note that she was visiting a friend and would be back for dinner. Birdie had come home for the weekend to say goodbye to her mother. Lydia’s train to Montevallo left in the early morning. Birdie would head back to summer school with friends after Lydia was gone.

Lydia covered the furniture and piano with spare blankets. In her bedroom she picked up the photo of William in his WWI uniform. Survived the war, she often thought, and died on his own dirt road. She leaned over to place it in the satchel, but hesitated, her hand poised in midair. No, she thought, William would stay. He belonged here. She put his photo back on the dresser.

She’d sewn two new dresses for the trip: one in yellow linen with a white collar and belt, the other in a soft blue cotton that matched her eyes. She splurged by buying a new hat, a pink straw with a yellow ribbon, which she took out of its box and tried on in front of the mirror, strangely satisfied at the effect of the hat with her newly shorn hair.

After she finished packing, she took the kitchen shears and cut some yellow roses from her yard, pricking her index finger on a thorn as she gathered them into a bouquet. It had taken a good two years before she could look at or smell flowers without thinking of death, but finally one day she saw them again for their beauty instead of being reminded of pain.

She headed out Whitaker Road on foot, sucking her finger. When she arrived at the cemetery she went to the family plot and laid the roses on William’s grave. “Going away for a while.” She wiped a bit of dirt from his tombstone. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

He didn’t answer back.

T
he next morning
she was up before the sun. The train north to Montevallo would leave at six a.m., and she had no intention of missing it. She moved quietly through the house, careful not to wake Birdie, as she washed and dressed in her yellow linen dress and new hat. Examining herself in the mirror, she hoped her homemade clothes didn’t look too “country.”

She decided not to wake Birdie. No reason to; they’d said their goodbyes last night before bed. The girl needed her rest, Lydia told herself.

She left a note on the kitchen table. “Goodbye, my love. I’ll miss you and will look forward to our reunion at the end of the summer. No one could ask for a better daughter than you, my little Birdie. Don’t forget to eat. I want you plump by the time I see you again. Love, Mother.”

Lydia sniffed a little, walking to the station, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, feeling ridiculous for her sentimentality. At the station she boarded the train and chose a seat next to the window. She wanted to see everything on this, her first trip in twenty years. After several minutes, two young men dressed in Navy uniforms took the seats opposite her. They tipped their hats politely, and she managed a small smile before looking out the window at the brick wall of the train station. The smell of oil and cigarettes made her feel nauseous, and she took off her hat, leaning her cheek against the cool glass window. The train squeaked as it began to leave the station, and she spotted a figure in her peripheral vision. She turned. It was Birdie, running along the platform, waving her hat, grinning. Lydia stood, yanking down her window. Birdie yelled, “Mother, you’ll be the best up there, I just know it.” The train was almost out of the station, and Birdie stopped, still waving. Then the train picked up speed and rounded a corner.

Lydia suddenly remembered the day she’d left for college. Her mother, as they’d waited for the train, had dabbed her eyes with a white handkerchief. She’d seemed so feeble and sad that Lydia hadn’t wanted to go. “I should stay home and take care of you.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” her mother answered. “Your papa’s going to take me to Florida for the warm weather. It’s supposed to do wonders for tuberculosis.”

“But, Mother,” Lydia started.

Her mother put up her hand to shush her. “No. Your heart’s made for adventure, Lydia. I want you to have everything the world offers. Go. Go have wild, grand escapades.”

Lydia stumbled toward the train, her vision blurry from tears. At the last moment her mother grabbed her and pulled her into an embrace. “Don’t forget to stand up straight,” she whispered in Lydia’s ear. “Stand up tall, the way God made you.”

Those were the last words Lydia’s mother had ever said to her. She was dead by Christmas.

J
eselle

I
t was
a mighty swell and push at the train station, a swarm of people hustling to find their platforms, lugging satchels and children in grasping palms. Jeselle, Mama, and Mrs. Bellmont huddled together, waiting for the boarding call for the train headed to Montevallo.

“Listen, you come on home if anything goes wrong,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

“Yes, Mrs. Bellmont.” Jeselle stared at the floor, feeling the shame creep through her until she wanted to fall upon the floor and surrender to the devil himself.

Dressed in her new blue cotton skirt and blouse and matching jacket, she felt hot and bloated. Mrs. Bellmont had presented the new outfit to her as a gift.

“A travelling suit for a young lady,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

In her new satchel were two everyday dresses, along with several sets of underclothes and oversized aprons Mama had made with large ruffles to try to disguise her stomach for as long as possible.

Mrs. Bellmont lifted Jeselle’s chin in her hands. “No shame in changing your mind.”

“Hogwash,” said Mama. “She don’t wanna let Mr. Nate down now.”

“No, I want to go. It’s a chance for me to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

“Oh, baby girl, it’s all been selfish on my part. You’ll understand, as you get older. But, thank you. Thank you for your gratitude. Grateful people are more content. Did you know that?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bellmont,” she whispered. “And I am grateful to you. Please don’t ever forget it.”

“You’re acting like you’re going away forever.” Mrs. Bellmont squeezed Jeselle’s hand. “You’ll be back before you know it.”

Jeselle glanced over at Mama. “I’m thankful for you, too, Mama. I know everything you’ve done to make sure I made it through this world safe.” She tuned to Mrs. Bellmont. “Will you tell me the story of when we came to you? Just once more as we wait for the train?”

Mama examined calluses on the palms of her hands as Mrs. Bellmont began the story they knew so well: Mama, her husband buried only days before, arriving at the back door holding infant Jeselle, with no job, no place to live, and no more than a quarter in her purse. Mama told Mrs. Bellmont flat out that she needed work, that to find a live-in position with a wealthy family was her only chance. Mrs. Bellmont, weary from caring for thirteen-month-old Whitmore and precocious Frances had welcomed them inside and after only a few minutes offered Cassie a job and the cottage to live in.

“And Cassie’s been taking care of me ever since,” said Mrs. Bellmont, finishing her story.

“Other way round, Miz Bellmont.”

Mrs. Bellmont smiled. “Nonsense, and you know it.”

Just then a porter in a black and red suit called for the white passengers to board the train. After a few moments, the man nodded at Jeselle and a few of the other black passengers. He didn’t speak to them, just waved them toward the last passenger car.

Mrs. Bellmont took Jeselle in her arms. She smiled, her gentle smile that Jeselle had loved all her life. “Time to go, I guess.”

“Goodbye,” she said, trying not to cry.

“Tell Nate to call us when you get there,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

Mama patted her arm. “Do good now.”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

Once inside the train, Jeselle crouched low in the seat and let the tears flow, watching Mama and Mrs. Bellmont standing together on the platform. Mrs. Bellmont waved a white handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Mama stared at the train with a blank expression. It was the last time, Jeselle thought, that she would ever see them again.

In the dark night when she hadn’t been able to sleep, she’d come up with a plan. To go to college was her dream, but inside her a tiny somebody, a unique person made of her and Whit and Mama and Mrs. Bellmont, grew. Nothing mattered more than her child. No one would take her baby. She could not possibly give her baby to strangers and go off to college as if she had not brought a life into this world.

She would work for Mr. Nate until a month before the baby was to come; by her calculations the baby would come in the middle of September. She had until August to save enough money to take the train west, where she could disappear forever.

Whit could not be a father to this baby. She knew his life would be ruined if it came out he fathered a Negro child. He would not be able to control himself and would go up against his father, acting impulsively and declaring that they must be together, no matter what anyone thought. Even if one of them weren’t mobbed and killed in the street, Frank Bellmont, worried about scandal, would devise a scheme to keep them apart.

That left only one solution. She must disappear.

The train began to move, like a monster waking from the dead. The pace was slow through the busy streets, dingy buildings, and rundown dwellings of industrial Atlanta. Once outside the city, the wheels moved faster and faster until it felt like they were slicing through air. The chugging motion relaxed her as green pastures and farms appeared in her window. She leaned her head against the glass and sobbed silently into her handkerchief that smelled of Mama.