“Hi, Grammie Atti,” I say, soundin’ guilty, like I came here to get absolved of all my sins when that’s absolutely not why we’re here. I hope against hope that my grandmother can help me understand Jubilation. I hope she can answer my questions. But for all I know, she could throw us outta here without givin’ it a second thought.
“Uh-huh,” she replies skeptically. Pointin’ to the jar in Mama’s hands, she asks, “What’s ’at?”
Mama sets it down on the counter.
“Thought I’d make ya one a your favorites. Mother.”
Of course, Grammie Atti knew exactly what it was before she asked. She knew before we came inside. Now she watches Mama with a little smirk on her face. Yes. Mama made one of her favorites: pigs’ feet. Disgusting. Stank up our whole house. That’s how you know we really need help.
“How thoughtful,” Grammie Atti says. Sarcasm in every syllable.
“It’s good to see you, Mama.”
“Is it now?”
Mama purses her lips and closes her eyes for a second. She’s tryin’ her best to be patient and civil with my grandmother, which ain’t easy.
“All right. I know it’s been a while—”
“Three years, it’s been. Almost four! My grandbabies must be runnin’ around and talkin’ in full sentences by now.” For a moment her fury is interrupted by confusion as she glances behind us. “Where they at? You bet’ not tell me you left them babies home alone.”
Mama tries to smile. It doesn’t take.
“No. They’re spendin’ the day with their father.”
Grammie Atti explodes in loud, spiteful laughter.
“You might as well’ve left ’em alone if he’s what you call a babysitter!”
“He’s not babysitting. He’s fathering,” Mama says sternly. This shuts down my grandmother’s laughter.
“If you say so.”
“I said it, didn’t I?”
“You ain’t even been here two minutes, and you already sassin’ me!”
Mama nods to herself. She seems to be thinkin’ something that she won’t say aloud.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“He’s a drunk, Indigo.”
“No, he’s not, but that ain’t why we’re here,” Mama says as evenly as she can. For the first time, I feel real sympathy for her. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to be raised by Grammie Atti. When you think about it, it’s amazing that Mama’s as kind to me and the twins as she is. Considering the model she had.
“We don’t mean to bother you, but we’re here cuz—”
“I know why you’re here,” she cuts Mama off. She likes to do that. “I knew you’d be over here before you did.”
Finally, she offers us some seats. A wooden stool and metal folding chair. Clients she takes through the beaded curtain into the nicer room. The one with the cushioned wicker furniture. We don’t rate that high.
“So? You jubin’ like a wild woman, aintcha?” she asks me.
“I don’t mean to,” I mutter. “It useta not be a big deal, but lately, it’s gotten worse.”
“It’s serious,” Mama adds.
“Of course it’s worse. Of course it’s serious. You growin’ into a woman and—” She stops for a second, leans forward in her chair, and glances at me below the navel area.
“And as I thought, you been fuckin’.”
“Mama!” My mother is scandalized, and I want to slither under this cheap card table and die.
“Evvie is a good girl. A decent girl. Don’t put that on her,” my mother argues on my behalf. If an asteroid hit this shack at this second, that would be fine with me.
“Oh please! Be offended all you want, you know it’s true. And you know you were doin’ the same thing at sixteen and so was I. She ain’t special,” Grammie Atti retorts.
My mother looks like she’s finna pass out.
“That’s us. Don’t have to be Evvie,” she says, barely audible, and it feels like years have just fallen offa her and she’s about my age!
“Oh, yeah, you right. Evvie’s different from us,” my grandmother concedes right before winking at my mother with her whole face. Mama leans her elbows on the table and rubs her forehead.
“So what d’ya want from me?” Grammie Atti asks.
“Mother,” Mama starts. She takes a pause to reset. “Mama? You and me don’t get along and we probably never will, but—”
“Wouldn’t be that way at all if you didn’t insist on believin’ in White Jesus.”
Here we go.
“That’s not what he’s called, and you know that.”
“That’s what he is. That’s what your church is about. Pleasin’ the white man. You pray to White Jesus.”
“And who do you pray to? Nobody.”
“Don’t need to.”
“No, you got it all figured out, right? Fifty-two-years-old livin’ alone in a shack tellin’ fortunes like the warm-up act at a freak show. What a sweet life you lead!” Mama shakes her head and sighs. She doesn’t usually go off like that.
Grammie Atti says nothing. She fills her pipe with tobacco. I wait for her to retaliate somehow, but she stays quiet for longer than I expect. It don’t make her less scary, though.
“How’s ’at sayin’ go? Somethin’ about people in glass houses,” she says softly.
“You’re right, Mama,” my mother says. “I shouldn’t have said that, and I’m sorry.”
Grammie Atti nods, the closest she can come to reconciling. She lights her pipe and inhales. The orange glow briefly illuminates the tiny tobacco leaves. Mama starts to say something else, but Grammie Atti raises a finger to stop her. She exhales blue-gray smoke and regards me.
I try to concentrate for a second. Try to read her thoughts. It ain’t that hard to crawl into somebody’s head and read their thoughts if you really want to. I’ve done it, but not much, cuz if I wanna know what somebody’s thinkin’, I usually just ask. I can almost see into her mind when a spark pops from her pipe, flies through the air and lands on my cheek.
I squeal and swat it off me. Mama jumps up to wet a dishcloth and tells me to hold it on the spot so it don’t turn into a burn. She glares at Grammie Atti, who just smiles.
“That’s whatcha git. Don’t be sneakin’ into my thoughts less’n you’s invited.
