I smile and look away, more than ready to talk about anything else.
“My baby,” he says, and shakes his head, and I see the sadness creepin’ back in again. “You know? I still remember the day you were born?”
“I know, Daddy.”
“You came with the hurricane. Made one grand entrance.” He laughs then coughs hard.
He’s said those two sentences to me I don’t know how many times. I never know how to respond.
“I’m comin’ back, though. Just gotta keep my eyes open and my head up high. It won’t be much longer now.”
Outta the corner of my eye, I see Mama sink a little in her chair. I know she loves him, but things were never simple between her and Daddy.
“I can’t wait,” I tell him. It’s true.
“You think you can’t wait? Lord, child you have no idea how—”
“That’s it. Let’s go.” The guard appears without warning. Daddy lingers in the chair, lookin’ at me with so much love in his eyes, I think I might cry.
“Move it!” The guard kicks my father’s shin, and his jaw tightens; the kick hurt him. I notice for the first time the chain connecting his ankles. They don’t usually bind his ankles. This motherfucker kicked my father, AND he knew he was chained and defenseless? Uh-uh. No.
I think I hear them giggling. The haints. It could be in my mind. But if they are present, are they daring me? Encouraging me?
Time is crucial. All you need is a second, a half second, to get your mind right when it’s all wrong. But sometimes you don’t even have that.
Between the kick, Daddy’s wince, and me seein’ them chains, no time passes at all. And in that no-time-passin’ place, the guard grabs his own throat, cuz he can’t breathe, and his eyes bug out and he starts flailin’ around like a fish on land, tryna get somebody’s attention. Somebody who gives a damn. Mama and Daddy glance at each other, and they both look at me. I hear that giggle again. I’m certain it’s them. They are here, and they’re on my side. I have to hold back a smile. I know this is wrong, but the feelin’ I feel, watchin’ that piece a garbage fight for his life, is so complete, so vibrant, so new. It’s like I’ve touched another orbit of existence, and I feel happy-happy.
“Evvie!” My mother hisses my name, and her face is all horror. The guard crashes to the floor, chokin’ and sputterin’, and his pink skin turns a sickly purple. I guess somebody went to get help, cuz a nurse, two new guards, three medics, and a guy in a suit bound through the door and drag the sputterin’ man through it.
Now that they’re gone, a silence has fallen over the visiting room. I expect to feel drained or scared, but I don’t. The happy-happy feeling has passed, but I feel… fine. I feel like he got what he deserved.
A couple seconds later, excited chatter starts up around us. Families shocked by the drama they just witnessed. My daddy stares at me, but the love on his face is replaced with fear.
“My baby,” he says, like this time he’s tryna figure out if that’s still who I am.
Soon another guard appears to take my father away. This is usually the saddest, most painful moment for him and me, but now he just seems bewildered. And I still feel a hint of happy-happy.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you, too, Evalene,” he replies. Just before the guard gives him a shove, he turns to my mother and says, “Indigo? You gotta fix her. Before she gets locked up too.”
9
Training
NEITHER OF US HAS TAKEN this path in a long time. At least a year for me. For Mama, it’s been years—emphasis on the s. She is none too happy right now.
We open the rusty gate and enter the yard. Instantly I feel unwelcome. Is this a mistake? I pause before going any farther.
“Mama?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Maybe we should forget about it and go back home.”
She peers up into the tree with shiny blue and green glass bottles covering every branch.
“We can’t. I wish we could. It’s just too big for us.”
She walks up the crooked cement path, and I follow, watching the ground to make sure we ain’t about to step on anything that could hurt us. No sharpened animal bones or coyote teeth shrines today. A couple chickens peck at corn kernels, and then they look up and all around. Not a thought between ’em. No clue why they’re here or whose supper table they might wind up on. Poor dumb animals.
When we get to the back door, Mama looks at me.
“It’s gotta be you,” she says.
I swallow and steady my breath. I knock on the door. Three times, take a second, and then two times. We wait. No sounds or footsteps or voices or anything. It’s creepy. Then again, you’d have a hard time findin’ anything on this property that ain’t creepy.
We wait some more. It’s strange. She’s never out. Even when she is, she somehow manages to be home at the same time. Mama swears that she’s seen her out at the market only to hear from a cousin who was with her at the time that Grammie Atti hadn’t left the house in days. This has happened more than once. She’s just like that. Mama nods at me, and I try again: three knocks, a second, two knocks. Then from inside the house, we finally hear somethin’.
“Quit all ’at knockin’! I know it’s you. Just come in already.”
I open the door, and there she sits at her converted card table in this old-timey kitchen. Wrought-iron pans hangin’ from nails so big they look like railroad spikes. A wood stove. All kinda roots and herbs danglin’ from the rafters. It’s so old-timey, there’s a claw-foot tub in here. Who takes a
