Memphis: A Novel(54)

Mama. In the months since Christmas—since I turned in my application to the Royal College—Mama had grown quiet. She still let out a defiant hmph whenever she saw me with my pocket sketchbook, but she held her tongue. I trusted that Auntie August was doing as she promised: was working on Mama for me. I kept quiet and prayed and prayed and prayed every night on rug-burnt knees that I would get in.

Derek kept quiet on the other end of the line, waiting for me to respond.

The anger came then. And it came swift. “I should go,” I managed. I wanted to scream at him, to make him feel some of the fear and shame and disgust I’d felt for years, but the words seemed to be gone from me now.

I was so engulfed in the call, so enraged at the mere fact that I was on it, that I did not see Mya. She must have been standing there for a minute. A socked foot reached behind her other leg and scratched the back of her calf. She wore her nightgown, a long African-print housedress, and she was eating a peach as she stared at me.

She was only fifteen, but Mya planned to follow in the steps of both our mother and grandmother: She wanted to be a doctor. The child was good with numbers and science and all the things that confused me, like dark mass and periodic tables and inertia. And she loved saving things. She’d sit on our front porch steps and tend to creatures—bathe and treat small wounds on the calicos and the tabbies, help birds with broken wings. Mya was equally talented at the guitar. Her genius with numbers transferred so easily to reading sheet music, remembering chords. My wasn’t just technical; she could really play that thing. Her musical talent must have come from Auntie August, who still played at the piano in the parlor every so often. Mya played her guitar for the shop. Had the women in there howling. And every day, she looked more and more like Mama. She took after her—petite and bright, with burgeoning hips.

I’m not sure how her tiny self did it, but in a sudden and nimble move, Mya snatched the receiver out of my hand.

“The fuck—” My anger spun toward my sister. I reached for the receiver, but Mya had it tight in her grasp, held it pressed firm against her ear.

“Mm-hmm.” Mya’s tone was serious.

“My,” I said. I was exhausted. My anger and adrenaline suddenly went to my knees. I felt I needed to sit, have a cup of tea.

“Mm-hmm.” Mya nodded. She bit into the ripe meat of the peach as she listened, the nectar spilling onto her chin. “Hmmm.” Her tone shifted to consideration. The phone’s cord twisted around her body as she kept dodging my attempts to take back the receiver.

“All right then, Negro. We on our way,” she finally said.

“What?”

She unraveled herself with a spin. Mya, as swiftly as she had taken the receiver, abruptly dropped it down on its hook.

We stood there in the foyer glaring at each other.

Mya took another big bite of her peach. “Well,” she said between chews, “guess we should put some clothes on.”

“Mya, that prison sits right outside of Nashville.” The distance wasn’t really the issue, but I grasped at the logistics like they were some sort of lifejacket that could save me from this plan.

“Mm-hmm,” Mya said, chewing.

“That’s three hours from here,” I said.

“Mmmm.”

“And it’s Tuesday,” I said, slow.

“Right you are. Go on.” Mya motioned with her peach.

“Right, and on Tuesdays we have school.”

“Reckon so.”

I desperately wanted to sit. My chest expanded and contracted with the long breath that left my body. “I’m going to see Derek, aren’t I?”

“You’re going to see Derek,” Mya said.

“I’m taking the Shelby,” I said.

“You’re taking the Shelby,” Mya repeated.

“And I’m skipping school.”

“We.”

“Huh?”

“We skipping school. I’m coming with you.” Mya bit into her peach and, between bites, said, “And on the drive, you can tell me what the fuck that boy did to you all them years ago.”





CHAPTER 24


August


2001


Three days. It had been three days since the sky fell. Three days since she had run out into the yard and met Joan and Mya. Joan’s history teacher carried Mya like she was a sack of potatoes in his arms. She was wailing. Neighbors came out to inspect. Heads over hedges, craning to see the daughters of that military Yankee man stumble up the drive.

Joan said nothing. Walked alongside her teacher with her sister in his arms, resigned, quiet. August stopped her at the front door. Put both hands on her niece’s shoulders, stared deep in her dark eyes, and said, “You better be a fortress for that girl in there.”

August turned off the television in the parlor. She held a cigarette in one hand, the rotary phone receiver in the other, and declared that the phone lines were likely down. They’d hear from him. She was sure.

All of August’s and Joan’s pestering could not convince Mya that she should eat something. She lay on the daybed in the quilting room and refused to do anything more than that. August expected this: The girl just likely lost her father. What August hadn’t expected were the gifts of food at her front door every night. Left by nameless angels. The doorbell would ring, and August would open it to find spiral honey ham or chicken broccoli casserole or a plate of beef ribs.