JAMES KNELT BESIDE her bed. Wil ie Mae’s money rested in a cigar box wedged between my mother’s body and the wal . Wil ie Mae’s perfume, Charlie, col ided with the butterscotch melting in Raleigh’s mouth. James smel ed of clean cotton, aftershave, and menthol cigarettes. And there was her own sweaty odor, which was the same as the money’s.
“Gwen,” he said, “listen. I have worked something out.”
My mother didn’t answer, turning herself toward the wal with her body curled around the box of money.
“Gwen,” he said, “I’m trying to do what’s right. T-t-turn your face and look at me.”
My mother didn’t turn over. She wanted to hear what he had to say without worrying about how her face might respond.
“Raleigh,” James said, “come here.”
Raleigh moved toward the bed and folded his long, narrow self until he, too, was kneeling.
It was the butterscotch scent that caused my mother to twist herself toward the faces of James and Raleigh. She could imagine how they had been as children — mischievous and inseparable and sometimes afraid. Gwen didn’t know it at the time but my grandmother, Miss Bunny, treated the boys as though they were a single being, beating and praising them in tandem, no matter which of them had sinned or excel ed.
“Wil ie Mae?” my mother cal ed, wanting some al y. The connection between the men was like a living thing, like a fifth person in the room.
“I’m going to go downstairs,” Wil ie Mae said. “I’l keep an eye out for the landlady. You don’t want her to catch you with the fel ows up here.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gwen said. “Don’t go.” But Wil ie Mae left anyway.
WITH WILLIE MAE gone, the room seemed to be ful of men. “Can you sit up?” James asked.
My mother, propping herself up against the pil ows, looked expectantly at James and Raleigh.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Raleigh said. “I’ve heard good things.”
My mother didn’t know how to respond to this, so she just nodded.
James said again, “We worked something out, Raleigh and me. W-w-we . . .” He looked to Raleigh and nudged him.
Raleigh continued the sentence. “We sold the Lincoln, got a good price for it. It’s in a check right here, made out to you. It’s on my account, but it’s from James. We just had to do it this way because of records, you know. But we are going to take care of you.”
Take care of her! For a moment, she imagined herself to be like her former mother-in-law, whose only responsibility in life was to be beautiful and speak proper English. To be taken care of was to not worry about not having enough love, not having enough money. It was like James and Raleigh were offering her the chance to be someone other than herself.
My mother looked to James, who nodded. “W-w-we want to do the right thing.”
Raleigh handed my mother the check. It was plain sea-foam green, the sort you get free with your checking account. Her name was neatly printed across the line at the top, and Raleigh’s sharp, but not fancy, signature was on the bottom. The “For” line was blank.
By the time she told me this story, the memory had gone bad like meat left too long in the freezer. She couldn’t remember the thril she must have felt at having her prayers answered so quickly, for the Lord to work in a way that was not mysterious but direct and clear. Tel ing me in 1986, she said, “Be careful what you wish for.” Now she can recal the tobacco odor of my father’s breath and the tang of his kiss. She remembers that Raleigh’s knees cracked as he was getting up. Wise with knowledge of the future, she wanted me to believe that she was apprehensive even then, but I knew she was lying. I envied her that moment. Who doesn’t dream of being rescued? Who doesn’t desire grand gestures?
AT THE HOSPITAL, Raleigh signed my birth certificate, to save me the indignity of being a bastard on paper. Four months after I was born, my mother, my father, Raleigh, and Wil ie Mae drove to Birmingham, Alabama, where they stood before a judge in a county courthouse. My mother was surprised at how little was required to become man and wife. Not once did anyone ask if either of them was married to anyone else. Raleigh signed as a witness, as did Wil ie Mae. I was present for the ceremony, dressed in my white christening gown, the lace train draped over Wil ie Mae’s arms. On my mother’s night table is a framed photograph. Picture me there, smal and clean, proof that al that went on that afternoon was both holy and true.
5
HEART DREAMS
BY FIFTEEN AND A HALF, I had become obsessed with my own heart. I dreamt about it several nights a week. Sometimes it took the form of a pear, bruised and slimy in the bowl of my chest. In another dream, it was anatomical y correct, pulsing with regular contractions. The only problem was that the valves were faulty; thick blood oozed out with every beat. These were the nightmares. Other heart-dreams were bright as summer. In one, my heart was a red-velvet cake, served by Mother on beautiful plates of polished silver. In a dream that was neither happy nor sad, the heart was a wine goblet, wrapped in a handkerchief and crushed under my shoe with quick mercy.
I HAD A BOYFRIEND, Marcus McCready, and he was the secret center of everything. He was eighteen and, technical y, the things we did were il egal. I looked up the word
To my mind, there was nothing not to love about Marcus. He was handsome and a little bit cocky sometimes, but I knew it was just an act. Al the posturing, the pimp-dip in his walk, the arrogant up-jerk of his chin — that was just to cover up his shame about his age. Marcus started school a year late because he had whooping cough when he was little, and on top of that his birthday fel at the start of the year. That made him a little bit older than the
