“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” I say.
Grammie Atti’s expression softens, and she relights the pipe. She goes into herself momentarily, but seconds later she’s back.
“I don’t believe she was sick,” she says, as though this is still a mystery to her.
“She was haunted, Evalene. You and me, we can see things in other worlds, make big things happen. Lotsa folks can. It ain’t always a picnic, but you can live with it.” She inhales deeply. “My mother was haunted in a different way. Nobody paid her any mind. They just thought she was a li’l flighty. Her haints scared her to death.” Grammie Atti rubs her forehead. She looks up into the trees again, like there’s somethin’ up there she lost. “She believed they would kill her. So she wanted to kill them first. She got a heavy knife, the kind used for cleanin’ fish, and she stabbed ’em. She said. For days, she carried that knife around with her everywhere, stabbin’ into the air whenever she felt the need. She wasn’t sleepin’ anymore by then. It got to be too many of ’em at once. That’s what she told me. They chased her up the stairs and into the back bedroom. I chased her up there too, cuz I was scared, ya know?”
“How old were you?”
She makes a funny sound, like she was tryna laugh, but a groan caught her in the act.
“Ten.”
She pauses to puff on the pipe.
“She was stabbin’ at every inch of air and space in that room and screamin’. I tried to tell her that she got ’em all, but she wouldn’t stop. She saw one on the other side a the window, and she reached out to stab it and fell through the glass. They didn’t make ’em so sturdy in them days. I didn’t see her body land. But I heard it.”
I’m speechless. This might be the worst story I’ve ever heard. And she had to live it. At age ten.
“When I come out this far, I keep on the lookout. Sometimes she stops by. Usually up in the trees. She always liked high places.”
“I’m sorry that happened to your mama, Grammie Atti.”
She laughs dryly. “Don’t go gettin’ sentimental, girl. Everybody’s life’s hard. I ain’t special.”
When she first told me she wanted to bring me out here for “field work,” I was grumpy as all hell and couldn’t wait for it to be over. But for the first time that I can remember, I don’t mind bein’ with my grandmother.
We sit lookin’ out at the water sayin’ nothing more. Passin’ the time until the sunset turns the sky pink.
18
Love
IT’S LATE. I AM EXHAUSTED. And I have to look after that brat tomorrow, but I can’t sleep. Thoughts and images keep crowdin’ in on me, and I can’t get ’em to stop or slow down enough for me to relax. And then even if I do get to sleep, who knows what’s waitin’ for me in dreamland?
There’s a knock at the door, which is surprising, since nobody knocks in this house.
Mama slowly opens it and comes in.
“Somethin’ wrong, Mama?”
She sits on the side of my bed.
“We need to talk about things,” she begins. I sit up, attentive. I don’t know what she wants to talk about, but I sure hope it ain’t Virgil Hampton.
“You and Clayton. You’re real tight, huh?”
Oh. This conversation. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe Mama can see that I’m growin’ up. “Yeah. I really like him, Mama. A lot.”
“Uh-huh. I think you more than like him,” she says. I don’t say anything. She seems to already know, so why do I need to confirm it for her?
“You know you too young to be havin’ sex, Evvie.”
I drop my eyes to the orchids on my bedspread. I don’t wanna talk about this, either. She shakes her head and lets out a deep sigh. Then she hands me a small paper bag. I look at her, confused. She turns it upside down, and a box of condoms falls in my lap.
I don’t touch it. If I touch it, it means I’m fine with what’s happening.
“Please tell me he has had the decency to wear rubbers,” she says. It’s not a question.
I fiddle with my hair, which I’d put in two thick plaits cuz I was too tired to use the rollers. I don’t think my mother has ever even used the word “sex” in a sentence before. At least not with me. I feel uncomfortable, and when I feel uncomfortable with Mama, I slip into good-girl mode. So my impulse is to deny everything.
“But we’re not doin’… I mean, we haven’t done anything.”
“Funny that your impulse with me is to deny everything, and with your grandmother, you didn’t bother denyin’ a thing. I was there. Remember?”
Oh, yeah. I hadn’t thought about that lie too carefully.
“Answer me. Does he use rubbers?”
“Sometimes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sometimes. He hasn’t… every time.”
She looks so hurt. Maybe it’s the plurality of what I said that’s upset her. Maybe I’m makin’ it sound like we’ve done it a whole lotta times. We haven’t really. Compared to some. Oh lord, I shoulda just taken my chances and kept on lyin’. This is awful.
“And what about the other occasions?” Through her hurt, she is deadly serious. I have to behave like an adult for this conversation.
“There’s a trick to it. He doesn’t believe me. That’s why he uses ’em sometimes.”
“A trick?”
Damn. I can’t believe she’s gonna make me describe this.
“You know how if you concentrate, you can locate your eggs inside? Well, when he’s ready to… when it’s time? I relax ’em, and they don’t let nothin’ stick. So? No baby.” Saying it out loud, I must sound like some crazy country woman. I probably sound a lot like Grammie Atti.
Mama just stares at me with this strange look on her face that I can’t read. Shock? Disgust? Confusion?
