“How is that possible?” he asks.
I shrug. “No idea. But when you find out, will you let me know?”
He almost smiles. Not quite, but almost.
We sit without saying anything for a few minutes. I can tell he’s really thinkin’ about all this. He looks at me with an expression—quizzical, but not too serious.
“I swear I’m not makin’ fun, but are you—like—a witch?”
“I honestly don’t know. Guess I’ll ask Grammie Atti.”
He nods.
“Does it bother you?” I ask him, afraid of his answer.
He scratches the back of his neck, and he looks down at his cake slice, untouched.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “It’s not like this is all you are or anything.”
I wish he didn’t sound so uncertain. I wanna keep talkin’ about this, I wanna do whatever I can to put his mind at ease, but I don’t get the chance, cuz the back door clatters open and Mr. Alexander is here.
“Your mama could use your help,” he says to Clay, and somehow he made that statement positively cruel.
“Yeah, Pop. I’m comin’.”
I see the briefest internal battle Mr. Alexander’s fightin’ with himself. He wants to continue punishing Clay, but he wants to be nice to me. He goes back in without either side winning.
“What’s going on with him?” I ask.
“He fired me.”
“He did what? Why?”
“For mouthin’ off to a couple crackers who weren’t willin’ to pay full price for a tune-up.” He shrugs it off. “I also mighta drained some fluid from their transmission. Like… a lotta fluid.”
“Clay!”
“So what?” His hands tighten into fists, and his eyes darken with rage. “Fuck them peckerwoods! I am sick of it! SICK OF IT!”
“I know,” I say, as docile as I can. “But you can’t just take risks like that. You know how dangerous they are.”
He shuts his eyes. “They take everything from us, Evvie. I can’t just roll over and let ’em. I can’t do that and be a man.”
I touch his hand, and it relaxes a bit. I pick it up and kiss it.
“You are a man,” I tell him. “Please don’t do anything like that again,” I say. “For me?”
Clay opens his eyes and looks at me like he could cry. I brush my cheek against his fingertips, and his mischievous grin returns.
“Girl, you turnin’ me into a damn marshmallow.”
16
Two-Headed
LATER, AFTER MOST A THE guests have gone home, I try to help out with the cleanin’ up. Clay’s aunts and cousins seem to like me. They say “Thank you, baby” or “Don’t you have good manners?” It’s different with Clay’s mother. She thanks me, but it’s outta obligation.
“Thank you, Evalene,” she says with a crisp formality. “Don’t you think it’s gettin’ late?”
It’s not even half past nine, but I nod, since she clearly wants me to leave.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m just gonna find Clay and say good-bye.”
He’s not hard to find. As soon as I enter the living room, I see him there, perched on the arm of a couch, talkin’ to Miss Corinthia. It looks like they’re havin’ a serious conversation.
“Excuse me?”
They both look up at me.
“I don’t think you two met properly. Aunt Corinthia, this is Evalene. My girlfriend,” Clay says to her.
“Very pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I say. I’m doin’ my best to ignore the jittery feeling I get when she looks into my eyes. “Happy birthday.”
“Birthday. Yes. It might be today. Mighta been yesterday. Mighta been. A week ago. They decided. This would be. The day.”
“She didn’t get a birth certificate, so her family had to estimate when she was born,” Clay translates. “Everybody seems certain that it was 1862 and summertime. They just don’t know which day.”
“A hundred years. Long time,” she says. She still pauses every few words to catch her breath, but she doesn’t seem to take as long to do it now as she did earlier.
“It certainly is,” I agree.
Her eyes twinkle. “Two-headed women. Will always. Spot. Each other.”
“Two-headed,” Clay repeats, and looks at me, adding things up in his head.
“I was a baby. When. Emancipation came,” she begins. “I don’t remember. I was too small. To be. Much use. But I was born. In bondage.”
I concentrate on listening to her. I push the nervous energy away. This moment is too important for my own screwy jubin’ to mess it up.
“It’s a tool. What we. Have. Evalene. Survival. Tool. My mother. She—” Miss Corinthia stops suddenly.
“Miss Corinthia? Are you all right?” I ask her.
“Lemme get you some water.” Clay dashes off to the kitchen.
Miss Corinthia reaches her weakened, deformed hand over to mine. I attempt to hold her hand, cuz I think that’s what she wants, but she draws back from that. She places it on top of mine, and, with the one finger she can maneuver, she strokes the skin covering my knuckles.
“She told me. Magic. Saved. Her life. And mine. When I was. Just born.” She stops to take a few breaths, but I don’t breathe. This is far more talking than I’ve seen her do all night, and I don’t wanna break our connection.
“Her labor. Was long. Violent. I faced. The wrong way. Overseer was told. Cut her throat. Drown the baby. In the sea.”
I gasp and shiver, but Miss Corinthia continues stroking my hand, which calms me.
“Master thought. I’d be born. Broken or dead. He thought. My mother. Would be too. Weak to work. Useless. But. Magic. Inside her. Knocked the overseer. Into the wall. Knocked him out. She birthed me. We survived.”
I feel like telling her not to say any more, to rest, but I’m too captivated to speak.
“We can. Save. Lives. We can. Move. Worlds,” she says. “Do not tell. Any. Man. How much. Power. You got. They. Can’t. Handle it,” she explains. I feel like I need to take her advice, and I hope I haven’t already told Clay too much. As that thought crosses my mind, he rejoins us with a glass of water that Miss Corinthia ignores.
“I thought. We wouldn’t. Need. Our. Kinda
