A Ship Made of Paper

out ofsnow when the night sky rolled into place with a fresh supply.There is no fear that is not worse in the darkness.

Daniel.It astonishes her how closely he listens to her, how he leans toward her when she speaks and nods his head, yes, like the ladies in her grandmother’s church, theAmen choir, in front ofwhom you could sing, or cry, and never feel the slightest shame.He seems to remember every-thing she has ever said to him, starting with their first hello.Like most married people, she is used to being heard only by half, and has even got-ten used to being ignored.Daniel not only listens, he seems to possess, to embrace the things she says to him.Six months ago, she said she had de-cided her thesis dissertation would be on some aspect ofParchman Farm, and today, sitting in her kitchen, with the candles in their holders and a box ofOhio blue tips at the ready, she learns that Daniel has readWorse Than Slavery,one ofthe best books about Parchman.It initially gives her a guilty, embarrassed feeling because she’s moved on from Parchman, it just didn’t feel right—she might, in fact, have abandoned it later the same day she’d mentioned it to Daniel.She has been having a difficult time set-tling on a thesis;jumping from one possible topic to the next has been the source ofno small number ofnasty remarks from Hampton, who wants her to get her Ph.D.and move back to the city.But Daniel doesn’t mind when she softly confesses that she has left Parchman behind.

“I switched to the music,”she says.“I couldn’t read about all the beatings, it was ruining my life.”

“The music?”Daniel says excitedly.

”People survived, they made songs, it’s very rich material.”

He gets up from his seat at her kitchen table, suddenly full ofanimation.“I’ve got just the thing for you! Do you have a tape player in here?”

She points to a boom box on the kitchen counter.

”I’ll be right back,”he says.He goes out to the car to retrieve a tape from the glove compartment.He is unjacketed;wet clumps ofsnow slither down his back as he paws through lumpy old maps and a dozen cassette boxes, most ofthem empty, until he finds what he is after, one oftheAlan Lomax Southern Journey compilations.It’s not the one he was hoping to find—he wanted the field recordings ofprison songs—but this one will have to do.“Sheep, Sheep, Don’tcha Know the Road.”

He shakes the box and hears the rattle ofthe tape within.Thank God.On his way back to the house, another limb snaps offthe maple tree in her front yard and it comes hurtling down, plunging into the ground not ten feet from him.Thanks again, God.

Inside, he plays her“You Got Dimples inYour Jaw,”sung by a man namedWillie Jones.Daniel stands near the tape player and does his best not to dance along with the music, knowing it will make him appear foolish, but the music is so sexy and good, it’s hard to stay still, with his arms folded professorially over his chest.The song is a paean to the beauty ofthe singer’s girlfriend, especially her dimples.“I love the way you walk, I’m crazy about the way you walk, I got my eyes on you.You got dimples in your jaw.You my babe.Got my eyes on you.”

When the song ends, Daniel pushes the stop button and releases a deep, satisfied sigh.“It gives you such insight, I think.It’s a love song to a woman whose physical being has been devalued by racism, slavery, poverty, and this guy’s saying to her:I see you, I notice every little thing about you, and it makes me so happy.It’s sexuality subverting the whole system ofslavery.”

“You think so?”

“John Lee Hooker made it a semi-pop hit, for this little outfit in Chicago calledVee-Jay records, in1950- something.”He knows that it was in1956,but he decides at the last instant to be imprecise, not want-ing to seem like one ofthose geeks who memorize music trivia.

“I’ve heard ofhim.My uncle Randall used to have his records.He used to wear a turban or something?A cape?”

She must be thinking of Screaming Jay Hawkins,Daniel thinks.“Maybe,”

he says, not wishing to embarrass her.“I’m not sure.”His fingers graze the controls ofthe boom box.“Do you want to hear another?There’s this fantastic version of‘The PrayerWheel,’by the Bring Light Quartet.”

“Well, the truth is, I’m not doing the music thing.I had to let that one go, too.”

He decides not to ask her why;surely she’s had enough questions about that.“Have you decided on a new topic?”he asks her.

“I’m not sure.American Studies, you know.Lot ofchoices.The thing is…”She stops, lowers her eyes.Daniel looks at her.He feels it would be permissible to reach across the table and touch her.

“The thing is,”says Iris, lifting her gaze.Her eyes are clear, with little flecks ofamber in them.“All my topics have beenAfrican-American, and I think that’s why I haven’t been able to stick with them.”She takes a deep breath.“I’m really gettingtiredofbeing African-American.Ial-ways thought ofmyselfas just me.I know that sounds sort ofweak, and when asistersays it, people think she’s trying to get out ofsomething, or she’s like a traitor or something.But that’s not it, not for me.I’m just ex-hausted by it, it’s so muchworkbeing black.And no days off, either.And the pay stinks.But what am I going to do? It’s my life.But I don’t think I want to make it my academic life, too.Maybe I’ll write about Eisen-hower orI Love Lucy,or something.Something white, or better yet some-thing that doesn’t even have a color, ifthere is anything like that.I wouldn’t mind being in school forever.I love learning.I realize it’s not the most highly regarded occupation in our society, I realize you’re noth-ing inAmerica unless you’re making money, but learning stuffmakes me really happy.It’s like being beautifully and luxuriously filled with all the knowledge there ever was.”

“They’ve got a lot ofold Lucy tapes at the video store, ifyou’re really interested.”

Outside, the trees continue to explode beneath the weight ofthe snow.It sounds like a long, nasty war is being fought.

“It breaks my heart to listen to all those dying trees,”Iris says.

”It’s a nightmare,”he says softly.

”Ifonly the snow had waited.I love the snow.But the leaves…”

“Ifit wasn’t for the leaves, the snow would just fall right through the branches and not touch a thing.”

“Everything’s timing,”she says.“The most wonderful thing at the wrong time? Disaster.”

“But you never know,”he says.

”Until it’s too late,”Iris says.“I’m afraid ofthings that can’t be taken back.That’s another reason I keep changing my thesis.I just don’t want to create a document that says, This is what I know, this is who I am.I re-ally admire your…whatdoyouliketocall her?Your…”She smiles.

”Lady?”

“Kate.”

“Well, I really admire Kate for just writing it down, sending it out, and getting on with it.”

“The thing she most cares about—her novel—she can’t write that.”

He feels his stomach turn over.“I better call her, actually.She’ll be won-dering where Ruby is.”

Iris brings him the phone.She can hear Kate’s hello clear across the kitchen, powerful voice, formidable, not someone you’d want to cross.

“Ruby and I are at Nelson’s house,”Daniel says.Oh, Iris thinks,Nel-

son’shouse.She turns slightly in her chair, not wanting to see what he looks like when he’s being so devious and clever.“I think we better let things settle down before we try to make it home.”

“I don’t think the snow everwillstop,”says Kate.She is in her study, facing her desk, where there sits an old Smith Corona manual typewriter and a dozen candles ofdifferent sizes, their flames dancing in the draft, an ecclesiastical whiffofparaffin in the air.“And when it does, it’s going to take a lot more than the little men in their trucks to get things going again.The trees!They’re everywhere and each one ofthem is going to have to be sawed up and dragged away.How about where you are?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“Do they have electricity?”

“Yes, for the time being.”

“Oh, you’re lucky.That means you have heat, too.And water.”

“For now.”

“I don’t blame you for wanting to stay there.Is the husband there?”

But before he can answer, she blows right past it.“You know what I wish? That there was a radio in this place I could listen to.”