Gone Crazy in Alabama (17 page)

Fern and I waited scrunched up into each other in the hallway like spies. It was the first time in too long a while that Fern let me near her. We could hear Cecile and Big Ma exchanging words. I mostly heard Cecile's voice. She wasn't screaming and acting crazy like I feared she would. When we heard her heavy footsteps, we ran out of the hall. As soon as Cecile passed to go to the bathroom, I went in to see that Big Ma was all right.

Big Ma was beating the yolkiness out of the few eggs our hens managed to lay. The hens hadn't been laying the same since the tornado, but today was the first day we collected nearly a dozen. Mr. Lucas said they'd be back to themselves once the chicken run and the nesting boxes were replaced.

I helped Big Ma make breakfast while she muttered angry words about my mother being in the house she was born in and how her own mother called Cecile “daughter” and took Cecile's side over hers.

I don't know how Uncle Darnell got my mother back in the house, talking to Big Ma, and then sitting at the table, but there she was, ready to eat and unbothered by Big Ma, who was still muttering and serving.

I brought out a pitcher of orange juice then took my place next to Fern, who sat practically under Cecile, and Cecile let her. Uncle D sat between Cecile and Ma Charles, and Ma Charles and Miss Trotter sat together and allowed no one between them at the table. Even when they fussed with each other, they fussed side by side. JimmyTrotter sat to my right, next to Mr. Lucas, who sat next to an empty seat that he patted each time Big Ma entered carrying a platter. Big Ma refused her seat next to him each time.

Finally, Big Ma stopped muttering and spoke her mind. “I won't sit at that table and I won't ask the Lord to bless it. No, sir. Surely won't.”

“If you won't ask the Lord to bless it, I will,” Ma Charles said. My great-grandmother, showing off for her sister and for my mother, said a short prayer for my mother for having made the journey, for Pa and Mrs. still traveling on the road, and for Vonetta—“Whatever His will, be done.” Mr. Lucas was the first to “Amen” and Big Ma gave him a mean look, but he didn't take it back or give her a look of
apology. Mr. Lucas waited for her to fill his plate.

My mother made no expression. I knew she was hungry and intended to eat no matter who cooked the food. All the while Uncle D called her “sis” and poked her and chatted away with her. It turned out that the Black Panthers at the People's Center had taken up a collection for Cecile to fly down here. Now she'd have to print flyers for them with her kitchen printer “from now until forever.” But she shrugged like it was nothing, and my mother didn't like owing anyone anything.

Since Fern had so little on her plate, Big Ma came around with the meat platter and dropped a piece of ham and a strip of bacon before her. Fern lifted her turtle head and pushed the meat to the rim of her plate.

“Keep that up,” Big Ma threatened.

“Fern don't eat meat,” I told Cecile.

“Why's that?” Cecile asked Fern. “Your teeth hurting?”

Fern shook her head no. Then Cecile said, “Enough people in the world trying to silence us. Girl, you better speak up.”

Both Ma Charles and Miss Trotter liked that and took turns mimicking Cecile's words.

Fern gave Cecile a look I didn't think she should give, but she did. She picked up her fork and tapped it against her plate. Tapped it in the same rhythm she would have banged her fists at her sides. Fern rested her fork and cleared her throat.

Wilbur's locked up in a pen
.

Bambi's mother's roasting

Round and around and around

She goes

On whose plate

Nobody knows
.

The people eat

Dead bacon meat

The people sing,

“We offed the pig,

We offed the pig.”

The people eat and sing
.

She bowed her head and said, “A poem by Afua.”

Uncle Darnell and JimmyTrotter snapped their fingers. I followed and Cecile put her fork down for a second to snap fingers on both hands. Miss Trotter banged her fork against her plate and so did Ma Charles.

“Go on, Rickets,” Ma Charles said. “You're nothing but bones, a big head, and big eyes, but you can sure say some words.”

“Mighty tasty words,” Miss Trotter added. “Hungry for some barbecue.”

“You have a conscience,” Cecile told Fern. “I don't have much of a conscience where food is concerned, especially when I'm hungry.” She took the pieces of ham and bacon from Fern's plate. Cecile didn't eat pork as a rule, but
gobbled the meat and looked to Uncle Darnell's plate for more. My mother wasn't Jewish or Muslim, like some of my friends at school, who didn't eat pork at all. Cecile was just hungry.

I tried not to stare at my mother but there was no corner of my eye that didn't see her. I thought I was beginning to know my mother, but I couldn't figure her out. I thought she would give Big Ma a crazy piece of her mind, but she let Big Ma say what she wanted to say, and she just sat there quietly, eating and looking for more food. I waited for something to happen. It was a relief that Miss Trotter was in a talkative mood.

“She surely does favor them,” Miss Trotter said, studying my mother. “Favor all three.”

“Surely does,” Ma Charles said. “And strong, too! Tell 'em how far you walked, daughter,” she said to my mother.

“Got a lift from the airport as far as the junction.”

“Hear that? All the way from the junction,” Ma Charles said, exaggerating her astonishment. She turned to Uncle Darnell. “What's that, son? Five, six miles?”

“About that,” Uncle Darnell said.

“Strong, I tell you,” Ma Charles said. “Where your people from, daughter?”

“That's not your daughter!” Big Ma said.

“Mama didn't mean—” Mr. Lucas started. But Big Ma said, “I don't care what she meant. I care what she says.”

“Oh, hush,” Ma Charles said.

If my mother was a little tickled it came out in her eyes but nowhere else on her face. She said, “Mississippi,” with a forkful of food in her mouth without spitting out a bit. She finished chewing and swallowing and said, “My mother's people are from Mississippi. My father, St. Louis.”

Both Ma Charles and Miss Trotter nodded, especially to the St. Louis part, like she had said, “Paris, France.”

“She looks about Creek, like Papa's people,” Miss Trotter said. JimmyTrotter gave me a wink. “Maybe Choctaw.”

“She look more like my mother's people,” Ma Charles said, which was her way of saying “plain old Negro.”

“She ain't nothing to us,” Big Ma said.

Cecile gave Big Ma—who seemed to want to fight—no reaction, although she seemed amused by Ma Charles and Miss Trotter each claiming her.

It was the first time I heard where my mother's family had come from. My sisters and I, we weren't just Trotters, Charleses, Gaithers, and Johnsons. We were pieces of other families we'd never know or see.

“Strong like my people,” Ma Charles said. “Done give me these greats. All three of them.”

And no one said anything. We were missing Vonetta.

Big Ma said, “Strong is sticking around. Raising 'em. Loving them. Not just dropping them like an animal in the woods.”

I waited for it to come. Waited for the dark cloud. Waited for my mother to say the kind of thing that only
Cecile would say. I sat there afraid to swallow. But Cecile said nothing. Not one word.

“You're here, daughter,” Ma Charles told my mother. “As sure as you're a mother I knew you'd come. I knew it.” She said to Fern, “Rickets, go get my tambourine.”

“No shaking that tambourine at the table,” Big Ma said.

“Go on 'n get it, Rickets. You know where I keep it. Go on.”

Fern went flying through the house in search of Ma Charles's tambourine.

Ma Charles said, “My Henry and I had pigs. A pen full. Remember, son?” Mr. Lucas yessed her. “Other folks left their families or jumped out the window during hard times. We had a horse for fertilizer, pigs, chickens, a garden, and the creek overflowed with fish. We didn't know a thing about starvation.”

The um-hmms went around from Miss Trotter, Mr. Lucas, my uncle. Even my mother nodded.

“Oh, yes. We had pigs a-plenty, but someone left the pen open.”

“Ma,” Big Ma said.

Ma Charles went on telling her tale. “All them pigs gone, and it was a hungry winter.”

“An unkind winter, as I remember it,” Miss Trotter added.

“Not just for every Trotter and Charles, but for everyone
around here. We weren't the only ones depending on our small living.” She said to Big Ma, “You got worse from me and then some when I finished with you. Might have been a hard winter, but what is a hog when you don't have your child?”

“Child, child, child,” Miss Trotter said.

Fern returned with the tambourine.

Although the house would never be the same, we made ourselves busy putting things in order. Uncle D and JimmyTrotter managed to rig up a clothesline, tying cords from the bent-but-planted pole to the remaining sturdy branch of the pecan tree. With more people under one roof, laundry day began early and clean sheets were a priority.

Mr. Lucas found parts of the wire chicken run two miles from the house, flattened and wrapped around some trees. He planned to get another one set up once he rebuilt the chicken coop. Sixteen hens were a lot of chickens to account for. They needed constant watching, and Fern and I had nowhere to go but the back and
front porches. We brought the chickens up from out of the root cellar to get fresh air and sunlight. Fern did her best to keep the fussiest hens away from the cows, Butter especially.

Cecile stretched tall in the door frame and then stepped outside to join us on the back porch. I started to motion for Fern to be quiet. Cecile liked the quiet. It was one thing I remembered from being little and sitting with her in our house on Herkimer Street. The quiet kept her calm. She always closed the bedroom door on Vonetta and let her howl until she fell asleep. I raised my finger to my lips but there was no need to whisper “Shh.” Fern ran off after a chicken headed for Mr. Lucas's land. Once Fern herded the lone chicken back to the flock, she stayed close to her chickens, her dog, and her cows. She'd look up to see that Cecile was there, but that was all.

Cecile's gaze roamed from the hanging sheets, up the broken pecan tree, to the animals, the garden, and then out beyond the pines until I was sure she was staring off into her mind. I knew better than to ruin it with chatter. As long as she let me be with her I kept the peace and quiet.

Shortly after one o'clock Caleb started to sing his song. I didn't have to puzzle over the meaning of the song. I got up and Fern and I ran around to the front. Cecile eventually followed.

I couldn't see the Wildcat but I knew it was coming. Two minutes feels like two hours when you're waiting. The tan-and-black car made its way up the road as far as it could before reaching the trees blocking its path. The Wildcat veered off the road and onto the field, bumping along toward the house. Fern shouted, “It's Papa!” and I felt sick all over again.

The Wildcat was here. Pa and Mrs. were here. My heart wanted to leap toward my father but my stomach soured. It was the first time in a long while that I feared my father. I dreaded the look of pain and disappointment I'd see in his eyes. I dreaded the words he had waiting for me. Without thinking about it I stepped closer to my mother until I felt her there. She stood firm, letting me stay.

Fern raced down to the car, and before I knew it the whole family was on the porch to greet them. I didn't move from my mother.

Pa got out of the car and came around and opened Mrs.'s door, giving her his hand. It seemed as if she didn't want to, but she eventually took it, and then she pulled herself up and out of the passenger seat. When she stepped out into full daylight, shielding her eyes, I could see that we were going to have a brother or sister. Not very soon, but the baby was more than a secret. The baby was real.

Fern threw herself over Pa. Instead of telling her she was too big for that, he held her tightly. She leaned over
and kissed Mrs. and I felt Cecile's eyes on Fern kissing Mrs.'s belly.

“That's for my brother,” Fern said.

“Could be a sister,” Mrs. said.

Fern shook her head no. “Our good luck is gone,” Fern said. “It's a brother.”

If it weren't sad, it would have been funny. Mrs. hugged Fern to her belly and told her not to give up hope, and then Big Ma, Uncle Darnell, JimmyTrotter, Fern, and even Mr. Lucas surrounded them. Ma Charles and Miss Trotter stood on the front porch with Cecile and me.

It was both a happy and sad meeting. The hugs were more about Vonetta than about being glad to be among one another. And after that began to wind down my father and my stepmother moved toward us. Cecile and me. They were only a few feet away but their walk from there to here dragged on like the way time dragged on while I waited for the Wildcat to come into view. My father saw my mother first, and he led Mrs. toward us. My mother stepped forward and gave my father a kind of a smile but then went to shake Mrs.'s hand first.

“Congratulations,” Cecile said to Mrs. “How are you feeling?” she asked plain and factual. Not sugary and phony.

For the first time that I had known her, Mrs. lied. She put on a face that wasn't her own and said, “I couldn't feel any better.”

Miss Trotter said, “Why pay for a picture show when
you can stay home with family?” I wasn't sure she meant that in a nice way, but Ma Charles thought it was funny and the two cackled.

“We'd have been here sooner, but I had to stop every minute and a half to find a bathroom,” Pa said.

Mrs. shot Pa a look and I knew all the honey and sweetness had flown out the window.

There was nowhere to hide. I faced my father. There was no running from him so I lifted my eyes and Pa said, “Come here, baby.” He never called me “baby.” The pain I'd been feeling began to melt, although it hadn't gone away completely. It couldn't. Not until Vonetta was home with us. I only knew at this moment, my father forgave me for not having done what I was supposed to do: look out for my sisters.

When Pa finally let me go, he cocked his head, looked Cecile up and down, and said, “I figured that's where they went.”

Mrs. said, “Where what went?”

Pa let Mrs.'s question hang in the hot air. He looked at the pants my mother wore and shook his head. Cecile always wore men's pants. But then it dawned on me. My father didn't shake his head the way Big Ma did when she saw a woman wearing slacks. He shook his head because he recognized them. My mother had kept and been wearing his pants all these years. If he meant to jar my mother or make her smile, he failed. All he got was her everyday Cecile face.

It was a good thing Mr. Lucas had added the extra room to Ma Charles's house. Pa and Mrs. stayed on their side of the house while Cecile stayed on the other side, mostly with Uncle Darnell, who called her “sis” no matter how many times Big Ma said, “She's not your sister.” Or Cecile was up under Ma Charles and Miss Trotter, who called her “daughter” or “dear one.” Big Ma had eye rolls and “hmp”s for that as well.

That night Cecile didn't sleep out on the floor where Mr. Lucas, Uncle D, and JimmyTrotter slept. We pushed the twin beds together in our room and she slept between Fern and me. She cradled Fern while I held on to one of my mother's braids, and fell asleep twirling her braids for their coarse and soft feel. The smell of coconut oil. And she let me.

Caleb sounded the alarm early the next morning. Once JimmyTrotter said, “Sheriff Charles,” we all gathered in the front room, but no one spoke. We waited as the black-and-white car barreled up to the house. He came alone. Without his dog. Without Vonetta. Big Ma lost her knees and melted down into the chair. Mr. Lucas, Pa, and Uncle Darnell rushed to her.

I studied the sheriff from the window. His hard, slow walk. The tilt of his hat. I studied him to know what he'd say before he said it. Cecile's hand squeezed my hand.
Tight. So tight I could scream. But I didn't.

JimmyTrotter opened the door and Sheriff Charles walked inside. He nodded once to cover greeting us all and said, “Folks,” but he spoke only to Ma Charles thereafter. “Mama,” he started.

“Speak, boy,” Ma Charles said.

“Mama,” he said again. “It was how I said.”

Big Ma moaned and called for Jesus but Mr. Lucas was there.

“Taranada throwed her here and there. Li'l thing like that hardly stood a chance, but she's in the hospital. S'maritans found her. Picked her up. Took her to Mercy. One sore heinie, one broke arm. Face scratched up. Could have been worse.”

And then the screaming and the hallelujahs broke out. JimmyTrotter, Fern, and I jumped and hollered and ring-danced. Sheriff shook his head and said, “Just like a bunch of . . .” He didn't say “Negroes.” Everyone was too busy praising the Lord over Vonetta, and we refused to hear him.

Except for Mrs. “How dare you!” she said. “How dare you speak to this family like that!”

Pa said, “Calm down, dear. We're not in Brooklyn.”

My mother said, “Call me what you want. I want to see my daughter.”

Miss Trotter poked her sister and said, “Slim Jim Trotter and his two wives.”

“Isn't it the truth?” the other said.

Darnell said, “Lou, you got the Wildcat. I'll take the truck.”

A revived Big Ma said, “Let's all go see Vonetta!”

Mrs. was too disgusted to partake in the glee. She didn't understand; if you prayed for the miracle you'd sell your most treasured possession for, you don't care about anything else but waiting on that miracle. I knew I had a piece of the South in me but I didn't know it was that much.

Sheriff Charles said, “Now look. Mercy's a good Christian hospital but they don't want to see all you . . . Negroes showing up at once. I'll take the mother and father. Road's still not good.”

We all wanted to go but Pa said, “Just me and Cecile.” To the sheriff he said, “We'll take our car. I'll follow.” Mrs. didn't like it but he said, “Marva, you're in a family way. You need to rest. We'll be right back.”

Big Ma said, “Junior, I'm coming with you. I just have to get my hat and purse and change my clothes.”

But Pa was already walking away. Sheriff Charles had a word with my father before he got in the patrol car. Pa called Cecile to come get in the car.

“Tell Vonetta we're glad she's not in the sweet by-and-by,” Fern said.

“Tell Vonetta I'm sorry,” I said.

Cecile said, “You'll tell her.” But her voice was soft on
me and not pointed. I almost smiled. Then she slid into the front seat of the Wildcat. The Wildcat coughed a little before she started growling and rumbling. I stood on the porch and watched my mother and father follow the sheriff down the road.