Sula

“No? Well, you gone be sick later on.”

“But I didn’t have no chop suey.”

“You think I come all the way over here for you to tell me that? I can’t make visits too often. You should have some respect for old people.”

“But Miss Peace, I’m visiting you. This is your room.” Nel smiled.

“What you say your name was?”

“Nel Greene.”

“Wiley Wright’s girl?”

“Uh huh. You do remember. That makes me feel good, Miss Peace. You remember me and my father.”

“Tell me how you killed that little boy.”

“What? What little boy?”

“The one you threw in the water. I got oranges. How did you get him to go in the water?”

“I didn’t throw no little boy in the river. That was Sula.”

“You. Sula. What’s the difference? You was there. You watched, didn’t you? Me, I never would’ve watched.”

“You’re confused, Miss Peace. I’m Nel. Sula’s dead.”

“It’s awful cold in the water. Fire is warm. How did you get him in?” Eva wet her forefinger and tested the iron’s heat.

“Who told you all these lies? Miss Peace? Who told you? Why are you telling lies on me?”

“I got oranges. I don’t drink they old orange juice. They puts something in it.”

“Why are you trying to make out like I did it?”

Eva stopped ironing and looked at Nel. For the first time her eyes looked sane.

“You think I’m guilty?” Nel was whispering.

Eva whispered back, “Who would know that better than you?”

“I want to know who you been talking to.” Nel forced herself to speak normally.

“Plum. Sweet Plum. He tells me things.” Eva laughed a light, tinkly giggle—girlish.

“I’ll be going now, Miss Peace.” Nel stood.

“You ain’t answered me yet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just alike. Both of you. Never was no difference between you. Want some oranges? It’s better for you than chop suey. Sula? I got oranges.”

Nel walked hurriedly down the hall, Eva calling after her, “Sula?” Nel couldn’t see the other women today. That woman had upset her. She handed her pass back to the lady, avoiding her look of surprise.

Outside she fastened her coat against the rising wind. The top button was missing so she covered her throat with her hand. A bright space opened in her head and memory seeped into it.

Standing on the riverbank in a purple-and-white dress, Sula swinging Chicken Little around and around. His laughter before the hand-slip and the water closing quickly over the place. What had she felt then, watching Sula going around and around and then the little boy swinging out over the water? Sula had cried and cried when she came back from Shadrack’s house. But Nel had remained calm.

“Shouldn’t we tell?”

“Did he see?”

“I don’t know. No.”

“Let’s go. We can’t bring him back.”

What did old Eva mean by you watched? How could she help seeing it? She was right there. But Eva didn’t say see, she said watched. “I did not watch it. I just saw it.” But it was there anyway, as it had always been, the old feeling and the old question. The good feeling she had had when Chicken’s hands slipped. She hadn’t wondered about that in years. “Why didn’t I feel bad when it happened? How come it felt so good to see him fall?”

All these years she had been secretly proud of her calm, controlled behavior when Sula was uncontrollable, her compassion for Sula’s frightened and shamed eyes. Now it seemed that what she had thought was maturity, serenity and compassion was only the tranquillity that follows a joyful stimulation. Just as the water closed peacefully over the turbulence of Chicken Little’s body, so had contentment washed over her enjoyment.

She was walking too fast. Not watching where she placed her feet, she got into the weeds by the side of the road. Running almost, she approached Beechnut Park. Just over there was the colored part of the cemetery. She went in. Sula was buried there along with Plum, Hannah and now Pearl. With the same disregard for name changes by marriage that the black people of Medallion always showed, each flat slab had one word carved on it. Together they read like a chant: PEACE 1895–1921, PEACE 1890–1923, PEACE 1910–1940, PEACE 1892–1959.

They were not dead people. They were words. Not even words. Wishes, longings.

All these years she had been harboring good feelings about Eva; sharing, she believed, her loneliness and unloved state as no one else could or did. She, after all, was the only one who really understood why Eva refused to