Grace (30 page)

                   
I was blind when the beating ended. And in the midst of it, I did not expect to survive. He nursed me to health over the course of a week. But I still do not expect to survive.

                   
I'm leaving him tonight.

Cynthia flips the page over, keeps reading. “‘First of November. My Dearest Leah. I have tried and failed. If we never make it away from your father, I want you to know the truth. You are my daughter whom I will love until the end of time. You must know that you came from a moment of beauty, my first and only moment of such. I do not regret you but I regret what you have suffered because of me.

“‘Dearest Leah. I hate myself for what my selfishness has caused. And now, for not being strong enough to protect you, brave enough to leave.'”

Cynthia folds the note, slips it back inside the diary. “Leah,” Cynthia say. “I hadn't heard my name since I was a girl.” She relaxes back on the bench, holds the diary on her lap.

“Point is,” she say. “It's not who my daddy was. It's who he wasn't.”

“I'm sorry,” I say again.

“This book got a whole page dedicated to ‘sorry.' Not really good enough, is it?”

She stands and stretches out her hand to me like she want me to shake it.

“I'm a different woman now, Naomi. I want you to know that. I'm different because I understand her. I forgive her. Forgive myself. And I know what I got to do for Johnny. For you.”

She reaches her hand out to me again. “You're gonna need somewhere to have this baby. Come back to the house with me. It's safe. Plenty room for all us. Let me help you bring this baby into the world.”

“And Albert?”

“This ain't no place to have a baby, Naomi. All this soot. Full of smoke. That can't be good for a new baby to breathe. Its lungs. Might get a breathing condition. So even if you don't want to come live with me for yourself, maybe you need to for the baby. What does Albert know about the labor of babies?”

“He needs my help.”

“He's already healed and needs to let you go. Sometimes you have to tell your friends that this is where I stop on this road with you. And if they really care about you, they'll tell you thank you for coming this far and let that be the end of it.”

“Then let this be the end of it for us,” I say. “I won't leave without Albert.”

“Then bring him,” she say. “If Albert chooses, he can make a room for himself in the attic so he'll be close to you but still have his own space.” She pauses, then laughs, “I guess y'all love birds now?”

I don't answer.

“You'll have to earn your keep,” she say. “Serve in the saloon or something 'til the baby comes. Can't let people think I'm soft.”

“Will I get my own room?”

“You can have Bernadette's.”

“Can I go out when I please?”

“Just don't tell nobody I said so.”

42
/ 1869

Tallassee, Alabama

I
DON
'
T KNOW WHAT
'
S
worse: living in fear or dying. Before two weeks ago when George met Rachel, I would've said fear and only dying if the dying didn't last long. But now, I just say death.

I've been waiting and watching over Squiggy and Rachel, hoping for George to redeem hisself for better 'cause I have no choice. If Bessie's consequence is true, I cain't square in my mind not being here to see my grandchildren grow. To see Josey, a mother like me, grow. I can't end myself after all we been through. They need me. Even this way. 'Cause sometimes, just being there for somebody, wordless and present, is enough.

A few days ago, I think Sissy understood that, too.

She found a body floating dead in the stream. She'd gone down to fetch a bucket of muddied water 'cause dirty water is good enough for the crops, not good enough for drinking. The drought make it hard on everybody. That, and the war, end of war, and the new war west. New freedom. So bodies have been leaving Tallassee for years. And not everybody make it out alive. But something about this dead body spooked Sissy.

Her screaming is what brought us all out.

Josey went to her right away, leaving her children in the house but I got there first. Saw the body shifting in place on top of a bed of loose rock and water. It looked like a log at first. The body. But the smell was worser than the shit of two sick stomachs.

About three days the body had been there, I'd guess. It belonged to an old woman who'd been left behind near a worn path. Sissy kneeled, leaned over it, gasped when she saw the woman's bloated face. It looked just like Sissy. Coulda been her twin. No further than a cousin in relation. Sisters, maybe. This woman could've been her long lost.

“Let's bury her,” Sissy said to Josey with tears in her eyes. It was those tears that surprised me more than the body. She said, “Shouldn't nobody die with nobody to bury 'em. And I don't want to die that way, neither.”

Since Sissy found the body, she's been helpful to Josey all week. Kind even. “Can I help you with the babies?” she'll ask. And, “I'll get that for you,” she'll say. I swear it frightened Josey the first time. And today, Sissy's been downright confessional.

“I was wrong about you,” she said. “And I ain't shamed to say it now. We need each other. Rely on each other. Even if all that means is waking up in the morning knowing somebody familiar is near.”

“You ain't got to worry about dying, Miss Sissy. Or being alone. We're family.”

S
ISSY
'
S RUSTLING AROUND
in Jackson's old cupboard now. They keep their linens in there now. Sissy hired the sharecroppers' son months ago to come and put a lock on that cupboard door. She said it was to keep the babies from falling down that hole. But only she has the key to the room. It's hung around her neck on a string so Josey got to ask every time she need a new cloth to wash with.

Sissy comes out of the cupboard holding a wood chest they keep winter shawls in. She sets it down in the middle of the room and opens it. Inside are full tomatoes, still on a vine, plump carrots, runner beans, and potatoes the size of two fists. I don't know where she got all this from. Josey's eyes widened.

“I don't know why I kept it from you,” Sissy say. She leaves her box next to Josey and shuffles over to the rocker, sits in it, and pushes into short swings. She closes her eyes like she praying.

Josey sorts through the box, puts one onion and one potato on the cutting board. Ties her apron around her waist before she takes her knife to dice them. “The world is changing, Miss Sissy,” Josey say. “Even for us. And look at all this goodness. This is what matters.”

“Perspective,” Sissy say. “It's God's gift to the dying. And when I saw that dead woman, I think I got hers. I used to have people,” she say. “Was married once. Can you believe that? Had good friends. Ms. Annie was one. My best. We used to play together when I was just older than Rachel.”

“You two was friends?” Josey ask.

“Annie treated me better than any of the other slaves . . . always. We got into so much mischief together, found trouble wherever it be. If mudslinging was part of any game, we'd play it first. Her Momma used to come out and say, ‘Annabelle Brown! You don't have no place in the mud with her.' A negro and a white. Unnatural how close we was. But nobody could keep us apart. Did a spit handshake to prove we was loyal. Best friends forever.

“Before we knew it, we was women. Sixteen and it was time for us to marry. Annie asked her momma if I could be her help to get her dressed and ready for courting. But Lord knows all we did was gossip and drink her daddy's stole liquor.

“We both married at the same time, was both trying to get pregnant at the same time, too. Wanted our babies to be best friends like we was. And even when my Paul passed on, I still had hopes for Annie. We were still gon' have a baby.

“But Annie wasn't getting pregnant. Months to years, then that knock met our door that night—the evening the night man, Bobby Lee, came to our door.

“You were her prize. She wanted to do everything for you herself. Y'all ate at the table together, she taught you to write at two years old.
You was already sewing beads on dresses by then. She'd praise you more than she shoulda, gave you more than she shoulda. Spared the rod even when you was breaking things, knocking things over, couldn't keep a room clean if you was in it. You were the reason Annie pushed me away. You left me with nothing except Annie's trust.

“It's why she listened when I tol' her what that night man had done to her. I was the one that saved her from kissing that black baby on the mouth. From the ridicule of this world. From them good people that despise nigger-lovers more than sin itself. But it wasn't them that Annie ended up loathing. It was me. I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at me after I accused you of being a negro. Eventually, she put me out like garbage.

“But I wasn't gon' let it end with me . . . no. And I'm sorry for it now. Sorry for what happened to you. 'Cause I'm the one who made sure rumors got spread. Didn't want to give Annie a chance to lie and hide it. I made her confront what you did to us.

“Her husband Richard had to finish the matter when Annie couldn't. He gave you away to Charles and soon your memories of Annie got erased. That was Annie's fear come true. You quit asking for Annie-Momma. You only wanted Charles-Momma to hold you and feed you and teach you. And Annie was heartbroke from being Forgot-Momma. Alone-Momma. But I wasn't gon' be alone by myself. And now I got you.”

Sissy stops rocking.

“People need people,” she say.

Josey wipes her hands down her apron. She goes to Sissy and kneels down next to her chair. “If all we got is each other,” Josey say. “Let us be family once and for all.”

43
/ FLASH

Conyers, Georgia, 1848

B
AND MUSIC WHINES
through here for her party. “A celebration!” Cynthia called it. “Bat Mitzvahed!” she said. “My old ass has come of age!”

I think that means it's her birthday.

For certain it's a fancy way to have a barbecue.

I imagine a diamond looks like this brothel.

A jewel, clear-white and sparkly. Cynthia took the whole week to clean this room out and wash it down. The thrown-away things she changed for white tablecloths, white candles, sheer white curtains, and the floor shines. We could be on the ring finger of Georgia.

Cynthia's boy, Johnny, had a real birthday last week. Ten years old. When he saw me from the hall just now, he came running at me like I been gone for days somewhere. He hugged my neck and grabbed my head two-handed, pressed his lips on my cheek and a burst of slobber cooled there.

I love spit kisses.

They're made by folks with a reckless kinda love inside of 'em.

Cynthia started letting Johnny come in the saloon more often. She said she marking the beginning of their fresh start. But he's still careful
with his permission, it's why he went after his kiss and I shuffled his red hair.

Cynthia paid a rabbi's son to teach her Hebrew and give her classes. She said she paid him for every vowel and every letter she learned. Cash money under the table and just between the two of 'em, 'cause girls ain't supposed to learn. She told Sam she did it 'cause she “Can't believe this body is all there is to me. I'm more than what feels good and makes me happy.”

Bullshit is what Sam called it but said he respected her decision anyway. Then reminded her she's a woman of science.

“Exactly,” she said. “Emphasis on biology. Living's a disaster with a hundred percent fatalities. None of us survive this. Maybe science should be more interested in known theories of what does. I chose this one.”

She's completed her courses the way the boys do. It's why she got her wedding dress on to party in her own honor and only invited the people she like: fifty customers, and less than half her staff. So everybody's walking in and out here like they special. Chosen.

The ones outside are standing around the barbecue pit looking in it like Jesus is about to rise from the ashes. The only stranger here is the big white man guarding the door, asking Cynthia who can come in and who cain't.

Bobby Lee and his two cousins have already been by two times. Got kicked out once. It wasn't a mistake that they never got invitations. When they first came to the door, the guard said, “Cynthia . . .”

She stopped dancing to see who was at the door. That's when Bobby Lee took his hat off to show her it was him. “Only Bobby Lee can come in,” she said. “This is a private party and his cousins don't wash their asses. I only want to smell barbecue pieces, not Henry's creases.”

Since his cousins couldn't come, too, Bobby Lee wouldn't, neither. He put his hat back on and turned down the steps while his grumbling cousins put their middle fingers in the air.

Cynthia's twirling around the dance floor now, grinding her hips like she got something to sell, even though the invitations say her girls
ain't working today. Maybe not ever. So they stand around the room in their party clothes, free.

This piano stool still feels like Jeremy's spot even though he's months gone and his piano's been covered in a white sheet. Cynthia keeps her mail on top of it now and Sam keeps stacking it there, too. Sometimes he try to make her talk about what's in the unopened envelopes, but she never do. A lot of 'em from the government.

This whole place has been decorated since yesterday but I put pink flower vases on all the tables this morning 'cause nobody would be able to see the small lit candles burning since it's day. We took down the dark curtains and let the light come in bright and clean like this ain't Cynthia's saloon. Even the mahogany wood chairs look pine from the sunshine. The smell of liquor's been traded for lavender. Streamers run down the walls, baby blue and white. At the top are paper-cutout stars, pulled open to a ball.

White men, dressed a little better than customers, make up the band at the front of the room tooting horns, twanging banjos, and sliding harmonicas. Except one man. He holds a wide-bellied bottle, got his top lip capped over the mouth of it, blowing. His deep base hums and gets everybody's fast feet stomping including Cynthia's.

In the middle of the room, tables and most of the chairs have been pushed away leaving space for Cynthia to throw herself this way and that way, dancing alone but wild in her wedding dress. Her hair that was all pinned up this morning's been danced loose on the sides, parting her unbleached strands, showing it brown underneath.

Sweet-smelling barbecue is wafting through the door now, full flavored and hickory smoked—chicken, beef, but no pork. Not because Cynthia won't eat pork ribs but because she's fond of the pig she call Doc.

She starts some kind of jump-back dance in the center of the room, hopping backward all the way across the floor and behind the bar. I meet her there with a glass of cold water. She grabs Sam and grinds her hips on him, laughing. She say, “Can you believe I graduated to ‘woman'!”

Some old man behind her say, “You been all woman to me.”

“Why don't you mind yer business,” Cynthia say.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her. “Better late than never.”

“That's right,” she say. “I'm officially responsible for my own actions. Six hundred and thirteen new laws not to break. I should teach a class.”

A banjo player, his white face painted black with grease, takes a seat with the band. When Cynthia sees him, she grabs my hand and rushes us into two chairs already in the middle of the room. She starts hooting and clapping before our butts hit the seat. She smiles with all her teeth, tells everybody, “Ssssh. . . . Shut up!” then whispers to me, “This is for you. It's popular in New York.”

Black-faced Banjo Man puts the pearly round part of his banjo on his thigh and bends one arm around it like he's holding a woman, pulling her close. He slides his other hand up its neck, along the four strings, and plucks one with his middle finger for sound. With the thumb of his other hand, he searches for the first note of his tune and his flat heel taps the floor. He shifts in his seat and closes his eyes. His song comes. It rises from deep in his gut like he mean every note.

Applause explodes when he finish. Cynthia is jumping up and down and clapping and whistling. “From New York!” she say, then shakes me, “How you like your surprise?”

“Mine?”

“Your gift . . . the Black-face man?”

“Does his face have to be painted that way? Do I look like that?”

“Go wash your face,” she tell Banjo Man. “And come back and do it again.”

T
HE PARTY ENDED
an hour ago and the big white man that was at the door is paid and gone. It's calm and quiet here now except for the clacking of the band packing up. The orange-brown haze of dusk is pouring through Cynthia's uncovered windows while I stand in the way of one placing a golden platter, silver spoons, knives, and forks inside
a cherrywood box, under a velvet cloth. I didn't ask where she got all these nice things.

It's just me and Sam left to clean up now. We don't talk much but we friendly. He gave me his last two days of tips, told me it was for the baby. Albert's only been up twice today from the room he building downstairs. Told me to stay off my feet and I told him I'd sit as soon as I finished serving the drinks in my hand. That was two hours ago. Now I'm just wiping down the tables. I saved him a plate, though. Barbecue sauce is coming off the side.

“Good job, boys,” Sam say to the band as they leave. The bandleader tips his hat.

When the front door shuts, the side door near the gambling parlor opens. Sam shouts toward it, “Party's over. We closed.” Then he say to me, “Drunks never know when it's time to say good night.”

But footsteps from that side door keep coming up the hall. Sam say again, “We closed!”

“Evenin, Sam . . . Mimi.”

My breath leaves me.

I grab this table, the only thing keeping me up. I'd know that voice and that word—
Mimi—
even in deafness.

“How do, Jeremy?” Sam say. “Long time.”

I don't turn around. Cain't turn around.

“Let me get you something,” Sam say.

“Water,” Jeremy say.

Jeremy's hand squeezes my shoulder, squeezing the life out of me. My tears fall sudden—his touch the only push they needed.

Sam sets Jeremy's glass of water on the bar top. Jeremy don't take it. He grabs my hand, instead.

He say, “I don't blame you for not wanting to see me.”

I cain't move.

He backs away and takes a seat at the bar. His reflection in the window across the room is like blurred vision in front of me. My tears giving me layers of lenses. He hunches over his water glass and slides it
to his right side and rubs his thumb on the side of the cup, say, “I was hoping you'd find a way to forgive me. Maybe another gamble of mine that won't pay off . . . unless you think it do.”

But I don't think nothin.

“I'm sorry, Mimi. I want to do better this time.”

I can see myself in the window's reflection. See him. Feel this loss inside me swimming up to my throat and to all my surfaces.

In his reflection, his left sleeve is rolled up in a puff of cloth around his elbow. But below his elbow I cain't see nothing. No flesh. No fingers. Some kind of trick of these tears.

I swing around to him, confused. But it's true. His arm is gone, half-missing, a stub of what used to touch me, feed me. He stares at my big belly.

I say, “What happened to your arm?”

“You pregnant?” he say.

He rubs his good hand over his head of hair and smiles, “Mimi? We having a baby?”

Albert's voice comes too soon. “You save me a plate!” Albert say. I can hear the smile in his voice before I see it on 'em when he gets in the room. But it goes when Albert and Jeremy meet eyes.

Sam say, “Tell Cynthia I'll see her in the morning,” and picks up his satchel from under the counter.

Jeremy say, calm, “But I didn't pay you, Sam.”

“Water's on the house,” Sam say.

“No,” Jeremy say. “I said I'd pay you for it. For the good service. I'm a cripple, not a liar.” He tosses a coin on the bar.

Albert say to Sam, “I'll let Cynthia know you're gone for the day,” and he turns back up the hall.

Jeremy bursts out laughing.

Laughs longer than he should, slamming the countertop with his fist for funny.

He smiles at me, then at Albert's back. “Where you going, Papa Bear?” But Albert keeps up the hall.

“Funny thing,” Jeremy say, smiling. “After that rockslide . . . when the doctors told me I had to lose the arm. All I could think about was the last thing I touched. Can you believe that shit? See, there I was dying, Mimi, and I thought of you.” He bursts out laughing again, reaches over the counter and grabs a bottle of whiskey, pours it in his glass, sips it, and throws his legs up on the seat next to him. He say to me, “So when did you say you were due?”

“We're due next month.”

“We? Who,
we
?”

“Me and you.”

He starts counting his fingers out loud, “One, two . . . wait, I left, when? Almost nine months ago. . . .Whew wee, Mimi. This baby's overdue.”

“Baby's supposed to be born after nine full months, not when the ninth month start.”

“You don't look but half that.”

He makes his voice soft and girly, “‘I'm a virgin. Be gentle. Don't hurt me. It's only you. I love you. I want to marry you.' Bullshit, Mimi.”

“There weren't nobody else,” I say.

“Yeah. . . . So who's the lucky guy?”

“You, fool,” Cynthia say, walking in, her wedding dress swaying above her sandals. “And by the looks of that arm, you sure as hell ain't lucky.”

“You been lying on me, Mimi?” he say. “Been telling people that I'm the father?” He laughs again, picks up the whiskey bottle, and sips from it directly.

“Oh, hell naw,” Cynthia say. “I know you ain't drinking straight out my whiskey.” She rips the bottle from his hand and he throws a gold coin at her.

“Oh. All right,” she say. “It's yours. You was fixin to earn yourself another bloody nub, though.” She pours him a little more in his cup and caps the rest. “But I'll keep this bottle.”

Jeremy finishes his drink in one gulp, then looks over his shoulder at me standing behind him, say, “If it's a girl, you gon' sell her, too?”

I slap him hard in his face. My hand is sore when I finish. He stares me down and Cynthia tells him, “This a private party and you weren't invited.”

“My pleasure to leave,” he say, putting his hat on, getting up.

“Wait! Just wait,” I say.

He stops.

“Just give me a minute,” I tell Cynthia. “Please. Just . . . a minute.”

A look of sorry for me comes over Cynthia. She comes and stands so close to me, arm to arm, and in such a way that Jeremy cain't see her face. But I do. Her expression's not of pity, but of a mother. My mother. She say, softly, “Not everybody deserves your honesty, Naomi.”

I nod. “I won't lie.”

“You could be quiet.”

“Just give me one minute,” I say. “Please.”

“All right,” she whispers, then yells toward Jeremy, “One minute! Then we closed.”

Jeremy brings his heel up on the footrest when she leaves. When I take a step toward him, he turns away from me. I grab his good hand, pull him back toward me, make him touch my belly. “
This
is our baby.”