Genesis Begins Again Page 8

  This time I’m running from a place. A basement. My daddy’s friend’s basement. We’d come here last October, after being evicted. A washing machine sat in the corner hidden by piles of stinky clothes. A hot-water tank was perched like a monster under the stairs creak, creak, creaking all night long. No windows. No fresh air. Flat mattresses thrown on a cold cement floor were our beds. Our clean clothes stashed in black garbage bags.

  Dad’s hand gripped dice and crumbled dollars. Three friends surrounded him like he was the Pied Piper, listening to his stories and laughing at his jokes. Mama kept her focus on him. I sat, invisible. A wrinkled brown bag was being passed. Hand to mouth. Hand to mouth. All around the circle.

  “Now, start singing quietly,” Mrs. Hill says. The buzz of voices pulses through the floor and up the walls.

  “When the sun comes back and the first quail calls,

  Follow the drinking gourd.”

  “Good, now as you sing, tap into that moment. . . .”

  I was thirsty. Hungry. Tired, too. And I just had to get up from that mattress and ask for something to drink. I just had to interrupt Dad’s best story ever . . . just had to disrupt the flow of the brown bag and rolling dice.

  “What do you want? Can’t you see grown folks talking?” he thundered.

  “Emory!” Mama said in a hushed voice, then turned to me. “What is it, honey?”

  The words fought with my mouth to get out. “Can I have something to drink?”

  “Let me get you some juice and chips. I’ll be right back.” Mama hurried up the stairs, careful not to disturb this house that didn’t belong to us.

  “Emory, man, she looks just like you,” said a man with shiny, pointy shoes, nodding toward me. “Can’t deny her even if you wanted to.”

  Dad glared in my direction, his eyes blood red. “Naw, she ain’t nothin’ like me.” The word nothing lingered in the air like their musty cigarette smoke.

  The bag stopped. Fingers itched. Hands fretfully rubbed foreheads. Then Dad. Dad laughed. His dark lips broke into laughter. Nervous chuckles joined in. Dice rolled and the bag started its travels again. It reached Dad. He took it, saying, “Man, here I go marrying a fine thing like Sharon.” He tilted back his head and took a long swig. “And she ain’t give me no pretty baby. She gives me . . . nothin’ but Chubby Cheeks.” He motioned my way, almost falling out of his chair. They caught him and sat him back up.

  “Emory Anderson, that’s your child,” said a short, round woman. “So if she’s ugly, then you’re a hot mess.”

  The tables turned.

  “Emory, yo’ hair’s so nappy, I can shoot the bucks off yo’ head with a BB gun.”

  “Come on, man, don’t get mad. . . . It’s already dark in here. Smile so we can see you.”

  “Somebody rub Emory’s belly for good luck.”

  As they ragged on him, they couldn’t see it. But I could. The vibration started deep in his gut. It worked its way up his chest. It crawled down his arm and spread through each one of his fingers like a virus. Finally, they recognized it. Too late. Just as Mama came back down the stairs with a cup in one hand, and a bowl in the other, Dad hurled the bottle against the wall.

  Everyone froze.

  Dad stood up, and came at me. “You!” His breath rancid.

  “What I do?” I stammered, scrambling backward like a crab.

  Mama dropped the dishes and they clattered to the floor, juice and chips spilled everywhere.

  “You were supposed to come out looking like her!” Dad pointed angrily behind him. “Look at you with your black—”

  Mama ran over. “Stop it! You’re drunk!” She pushed him away and pulled me behind her. “You will NOT talk to my child this way!” She grabbed my hand and practically dragged me up the stairs, away from my dad.

  In the kitchen, Mama held me tight. “He didn’t mean it, Gen. His drinking . . . it’s a sickness, understand?”

  No, I didn’t. I don’t.

  “For the old man is a-waiting for to carry you to freedom,

  If you follow the drinking gourd.”

  Too late, too late, too late. His words have already shackled me.

  I force back the rumble in my throat while the class sings.

  “I thought I heard the angels say

  Follow the drinking gourd.

  The stars in the heavens gonna show you the way

  Follow the drinking gourd.”

  I can no longer hold back, my mouth opens and I sing. I sing. And sing.

  After a while, I don’t hear the drumbeat or the other voices. I don’t hear the hooves or the crunching of leaves. I open my eyes. Mrs. Hill stands directly in front of me. Everybody’s staring.

  What? No one else was singing? They’d all stopped? My face burns. “Can I go to the restroom, please?” I barely get the words out.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hill says with a nod. As I pass her, she grabs hold of my shoulder and squeezes.

  I make it out the door, down the hall, and around the corner to the girls’ room. Unbelievably, it’s empty. I duck into the stall farthest from the door and fall back against the wall. No matter how many times I’ve come home and our furniture was on the lawn, I didn’t cry. With all the teasing and name calling from other kids, none of them have seen me cry. Every time the voices in the mirror scream to me what I’m not, I have not cried. But right now, I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry for the time Dad told me I was ugly. I’m going to cry because I keep having to start all over again. I’m going to cry because everyone in chorus left me singing—alone.

  Girls come in and out of the bathroom, and each time I strangle back my sobs. The whole class is probably laughing at the girl singing with her eyes closed. I don’t even understand how I sang like that. I’ve never even sung like that in my room, by myself—ever! I force myself to get a grip.

  And when the halls are absolutely still, then and only then do I come out of the restroom. But I have to go back to chorus; I left my stuff. When I get there, Mrs. Hill is straightening the chairs.

  “I hoped you wouldn’t leave without your things. Let me get them for you.” Mrs. Hill brings me my binder.

  “Thanks.” Without making eye contact—especially with my crybaby red eyes—I quickly turn to escape.

  “You know, I was totally wrong.” Mrs. Hill’s voice is so gentle that I have to stop to listen. “Turns out you’re not a Miles Davis. Could be a Billie Holiday? Have you heard of her?”

  It’s kind of hard to follow what she means, but at least I’m together enough to respond.

  “Yeah. I mean, yes. She’s that lady up on the wall, right?” I point to a picture of a light-brown lady with her lipsticked mouth open, singing.

  Mrs. Hill smiles up at the photo. “That’s her, the lady herself,” she says, going to her closet.

  “My father, he told me a little bit about her,” I add, remembering Wikipedia Dad’s story about why she always sported a gardenia in her hair. “I’m not sure if I’ve heard her songs, though.”

  After a few seconds of rummaging around, Mrs. Hill hands me an old worn album. “This is one of hers.” On the cover is the singing lady with, of course, a big white flower on the side of her head. She seems to be pondering something deep, like man’s existence.

  “I didn’t know people still owned these,” I say, flipping the cover to read the song list.

  “Indeed! The sound is superbly authentic. I wish I still had my old record player.”

  “You had a record player?” I keep my puffy, red eyes on the album.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hill says with a laugh. “And don’t say it like it was centuries ago; you’re making me feel old.” She opens the top of what looks like a box. “I picked this one up at a bookstore. Apparently, record players are making a comeback. A retro thing.” She takes the record out of its sleeve, puts it on the turntable, and gently places the needle on the vinyl. “This one is called ‘God Bless the Child.’ It’s kind of scratchy, but not too bad.” Mrs. Hill hands me a set o
f headphones that totally cover my ears, just like deejays wear.

  As soon as I slip them on, the muted horns draw me into their melody, and I’m instantly swaying. Then Billie Holiday’s voice slips in and I’m immediately transported to an old-time jazz club, the kind they have in the movies. Cigarette fog drapes the room. Billie Holiday stands under a dull light nodding to the piano’s tunes. She tilts her head back and gritty raw sugar spills out. Now I understand what Mrs. Hill was saying about “putting yourself in the music.”

  As the record plays, the music tells stories of the child who’s got her own; the one haunted in solitude; the one who’s heartache hangs around every day. When she sings, she doesn’t explain the meaning of her lyrics, but you get it. How does she do that? Maybe memories are trapped in her voice? I press the headphones closer. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s there, for sure.

  A tap on my shoulder makes me jump.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you. But your parents are going to wonder where you are. It’s just about four o’clock.”

  What? How do almost forty-five minutes go by without me noticing?

  “Yeah, probably,” I mutter. I’d rather stay here, hidden in Billie Holiday. “Guess I ought to be going,” I say out loud, reluctantly. “She’s good,” I add. “Billie. She’s real good.”

  “Here, take this with you.” Mrs. Hill hands me a CD. “Thought you might want to listen to her at home.”

  “Really?” I finally look up.

  “Sure, take it.”

  “Mrs. Hill?”

  Mrs. Hill regards me so attentively that I want to tell her secrets that I can’t tell anybody. Like how I was brave enough to stand up to Regina and the girls, but terrified inside. Or that Dad finally told me some family history, even though it was sad. I wish I could tell her I’m grateful to be a light-skin Billie Holiday–type rather than a Miles Davis. If I could, I’d admit that I appreciate her acting like she hasn’t noticed my eyes. Mostly, I want to explain what happened earlier—my singing—so we can bury it forever. But the only word I can manage is: “Thanks.” How come the right stuff never comes out?

  “I’m just glad you like Lady Day. Keep it as long as you need.” Mrs. Hill smiles with her eyes. I leave the classroom wondering if she somehow knows—knows that I’ve never sung like that before, too scared to sing like that again, in front of everybody, and not sure if I could if I actually wanted to—yeah, I wonder if she knows, even though I couldn’t tell her.

  ten

  In the solitude of our backyard, I sit on the deck’s steps, thinking. I think of how the jerk Terrance clowned me today. And how in the world I got caught slipping, singing in front of everybody. I’m feeling all down till I think about how, for the first time, I have a real friend—Sophia. And—

  “Girl, what’re you doing out here?” Mama says, almost making me jump out of my skin. “Scared me half to death finding this back door cracked open.”

  “Shoot, you scared me,” I say, easing back down in my spot. “I was about to make a run for it.”

  She steps out onto the deck. “You wouldn’t’ve gotten far, not with this fence.” Mama rests her elbows on the railing and takes in the fresh air. She still wears her scrubs, but with house slippers. “Lord, I hope your dad gets that new job soon. Patio furniture would be amazing come summer. I could sit out here and just relax.”

  “Me too,” I agree.

  “Looks like I won’t be the only one soaking up all this calmness.” Mama lightly kicks Dad’s can of cigarette butts that’s sitting on the first step of the deck. At least he’s keeping his promise. Well, except for that night when he lit up in the kitchen. Dang, now I’m thinking about Charlie all over again.

  Mama takes a seat next to me, and the moment feels right to share about me and Dad’s late-night shrimp dinner. Maybe she can help me understand the deal with Dad’s family. “Ma? How come you never told me the whole story about Dad’s brother?”

  Mama whistles softly. “That’s a hard one, Gen. It’s just that . . . your father never got over it. So it’s something we never talk about, I guess.”

  The not-talking-about-it part doesn’t make sense. But Mama doesn’t offer more, so I let it go for now and listen to the birds and watch the squirrels. I never knew how birds could fill the air with so much sound. Where were these singing birds during chorus?

  Then Mama, surprisingly, tugs my hair. “Come on, it’s too breezy out here. Besides, it’s time to tackle this stuff.” She wants to do my hair!

  I jump up, forgetting all about my solo in Mrs. Hill’s class. “About time!”

  “My fault, Gen. . . . I know a woman’s hair is her crowning glory,” Mama says, going inside, sweeping into the bathroom, and scavenging through the closet.

  “ ‘Crowning glory’? Where’d you hear that one?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s something your grandma used to say.” She hands me shampoo, conditioner, and a towel. She takes the pressing comb and some elastic bands out of a drawer, then is off to the kitchen.

  Grandma knows that my hair’s never brought me any glory and maybe that’s why she doesn’t say it to me, and huh, come to think of it, maybe that’s why Mama works so hard to change it. Shoot, before things got bad, we’d be in the beauty salon every two weeks without fail. But now, ’cause of Dad, we’re on a budget, and Mama has to do it—and our two-week schedule is more like three and a half, and ain’t no glory in that.

  Still, when Mama washes my hair, I know for sure she loves me, because she does it even though she reminds me over and over how much she hates doing it. Yet, even though we both know I’m old enough to wash my own hair, she claims I don’t get all the soap out, and insists on doing it herself. Her fingers are strong and firm as she scrubs my scalp. Warm water runs through my hair and down my face as I bend over the kitchen sink. The smell of sweet peaches fills the room.

  Mama’s love stops at blow-drying, though. My hair’s a mess of tangles and knots. I jerk and pull. Jerk and pull. Jerk and pull the dryer comb through my wooly head. This she makes me do myself; we’ve had too many “emotional outbursts” with her yanking and me crying. Now I yank my own head, mad at no one but the Lord for giving me hair like this.

  After an hour of agony, I find Mama in the kitchen flipping through circulars. She takes one look at me and her eyes go wide.

  “What?”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve told you time and again, you’re supposed to dry your hair down, not up like a rooster.” She reaches for the comb in my hand. “That’s some demented ’fro you got going on.” Now she laughs, touching it.

  “What am I supposed to do? It’s too hard to dry any other way. And quit laughing!”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” says Mama. “It’s just that—with that big, wild hair you look like you’re in the Jackson 5.”

  “Seriously, Mama? A bunch of guys? Not to mention they’re, like, ancient.”

  “Let me think.” Mama tries again. “How ’bout Angela Davis?”

  “Who?”

  “Your father never told you about Angela Davis? Oh, Angela was this activist associated with the Black Panthers.” Mama tells me how Angela fought for civil rights, but she doesn’t tell stories like Dad, so I make a mental note to ask him about her later. Mama fluffs my hair, laughing again. “I can’t help it, honey. The Jackson 5 is what comes to mind. Sorry.”

  “Fine, I’ll give you all five of the Jacksons!” In a high-pitched Michael voice, I break into an old Motown song and all of a sudden, I’m playing guitar like Tito, spinning like Jackie, doing a two-step like Jermaine, a side rock like Marlon, and a moonwalk like Michael. Ol’ school!

  “Stop, Genesis. . . . You are hilarious,” Mama says, laughing so hard she’s fanning herself. “Girl, you are funny like your father.”

  Dad can be funny. Sometimes.

  “That man used to always crack me up.” Now Mama drags a chair to the stove. That means it’s time for straightening. “ ’Course that’s one of the things tha
t attracted me to him.”

  When Mama does my hair, she spills all the tea. One time she told me she wanted to go to college, dreamed of being a newscaster. “Then I met your daddy,” she’d said. “He was determined, charismatic, plus that man could dance!” Another time she said Grandma didn’t like that trifling man sniffing around her. Mama had gotten real reflective that time, but then she added in a rush, “But I don’t regret anything. If we wouldn’t have married, I wouldn’t have had you, now, would I?”

  The way Mama had said those words made me wonder if she truly meant them. In moments like right now, my heart believes she wouldn’t trade me for anything in the world, especially since she’s told me that plenty of times. But every now and again, my brain still questions if it’s completely true, that she doesn’t regret anything—not going to college, marrying dad, and having me.

  Mama now combs through my hair, as if I hadn’t just spent a half hour doing the same thing, and starts parting it into four sections.

  “Yep, your dad won me over with his sense of humor,” she says, gathering a section in the front of my hair and twisting a band around it.

  “Dad was really funny?” I question. “Like, how funny?”

  Her hands move fast, putting bands around two more sections of my hair, leaving the one in the back. Now I have three big Afro puffs, two in the front, one in the back.

  She turns on the stove and puts the pressing comb on the burner. “He may not tell many jokes now, but he used to. . . . Like when he first told me that Gandhi story, he said he was the one who shaved Gandhi’s head!” she says, laughing.

  I don’t laugh.

  “Well, it was the way he said it.”

  Listening to Mama distracts me from the fact that a zillion degree hot comb will be millimeters away from my brain for the next forty minutes. She gently pushes down my head, and starts with the back-right side. The pressing comb is hot as heck; the heat attacks my neck. Slowly Mama slides the hot comb through the roots of my hair and pulls it to the ends, turning it from kinky to straight. Then she repeats the same movement, but this time she nicks me.