Boy, Snow, Bird(68)
Clara had shifted her chair so that her shoulder rested against John’s, but she still didn’t look at him. The two of them kept right on facing Gerald, who muttered something about John still needing to take more time to think before he spoke.
I’d hoped that Bird was too busy reciting Spanish poetry to her father to overhear that particular exchange, but the kid dashed those hopes of mine by suddenly asking me if I had a pen. I said I didn’t, and that there was to be no leaving the table in search of one, either. I know I can’t keep my daughter from tracking down that picture of Emmett Till’s remains lying in their casket—Mia will probably show it to her, if nobody else will—but I can make it harder for Bird’s grief to begin. I doubt she’ll believe that I share it; not at first, maybe not for a while. It’s been thirteen years since the murder, but for Bird the news would be minutes old. I’ve tried to tell her a few things I’ve figured out, but I can see that she doesn’t get what I’m saying, it’s like I’m just bothering her, all she hears is mumbling. The three things I know:
First, I’m with Bird in any Them versus Us situation she or anyone cares to name.
Second, it’s not whiteness itself that sets Them against Us, but the worship of whiteness. Same goes if you swap whiteness out for other things—fancy possessions for sure, pedigree, maybe youth too . . . I’m still of two minds about that.
Third, we beat Them (and spare ourselves a lot of tedium and terror) by declining to worship.
Bird needs time. I hope I’ll remember thinking this if she ever comes to disbelieve that I love her. No revelation is immediate, not if it’s real. I feel that more and more.
When it was time for each of us to say what we were thankful for, Agnes thanked Clara and John for taking such good care of Snow “for us.”
Clara didn’t raise her voice, but the aftermath was just as if she’d yelled and smashed her wineglass. “For you? We did it for Snow.”
Bird nodded at her. She’s growing up into a huntress, every line in her clear and strong. She got her eyes from me, and when I talk, she dissects me with my own gaze. That’s gratitude for you. Her first period came, and she called me into the bathroom. She was sitting on the can with her knees pressed together and her underpants in her hand, and she showed me the blood with an expression that asked me how she could possibly be expected to tolerate this level of inconvenience. I remembered her at six years old; she came home from her first day at elementary school and wanted to know who she could speak to about not having to go there anymore. She was sure that there was some official type who took you off the school register if you just went to them and explained that you didn’t like it. I wouldn’t have minded a tender mother-daughter moment in which I reassured us both that she was still my little girl, but in reality I had to say “Welcome to womanhood” quite assertively, maybe even aggressively, for fear she wouldn’t accept it otherwise. I’m leaving it to Arturo to give her the talk about fooling around with boys and waiting until she’s sure that the boy respects her. Louis is well brought up and their friendship strikes me as genuine, but he’s older than she is, and his friends set each other stupid dares. Those knuckleheads think they invented pig Latin. About three years ago Arturo got wistful about not having a son. I told him we could look into adopting a boy and he said: “Let me ask you something, Boy. Where do you get the balls to bluff the way you do?”
At the dinner table John began to tell another story from the good old days (this one had a carefully edited sound to it), but Bird reached across the table and pushed the edge of Vivian’s dinner plate with her fork. “What’s that in your cranberry sauce?”
Vivian hurriedly stabbed at the subject of Bird’s inquiry with her fork and flipped it into a paper napkin, but Clara declared: “Hair.”
“Hair?” Gerald said, and Vivian looked ready to die. A couple more sizeable clumps fell onto her turkey as her fingers fluttered nervously around her glossy beehive hairdo, and Arturo and I gazed at each other with dread. For my part I was sure this drastic shedding signaled a serious illness, and my memory suddenly opened up an uncomfortable index of all the occasions upon which I hadn’t shown her the kindness she deserved.
Olivia was unimpressed. “What is the meaning of this, Vivian?”
Vivian scraped more hair into her napkin, forced a laugh, and said: “Sorry, Mama—I think it’s the lye. Too strong, or too regularly applied, something like that. But I’m fine”—she glanced at Arturo and reached around the back of Snow’s chair to squeeze his arm—“I’m fine.”
“You always did overdo things, Vivian.” Olivia gestured to Agnes to pass down the wine carafe, but Clara handed the wine to her mother herself, saying: “You always did preach about hair. So tell us, what did Viv overdo? Was she supposed to pass as white, but only just? Was she supposed to come top of her class every time, but only just?”
Olivia very calmly began to remind Clara that we were having a family dinner and that it was unpleasant for everybody when people spoke out of turn, but Vivian took a gulp of wine, rallied, and said: “No, Mama. I want to know. What did I overdo? It’s more than what Clara says. I could go on and on . . .”
Gerald cleared his throat. “That’s enough. You listen to me. All your mama and I wanted was for our children to make some kind of difference in people’s lives. To serve justice, to teach, to do good—Clara, this includes you. Circumstances—we—well. We’ve tried hard to make it easier for you to do those things without people slamming doors in your faces.”