My Monticello(47)

Finally, this child fumbled for his bag. He got up, stumbling back and away from me, slowly at first, before turning to run down the road toward town. I watched him get away, standing out past our stretch of woods, farther out than I’d been in many days.

By the time I made it back to the welcome pavilion, I could hardly speak. I must’ve still been shaking, my clothes crooked on me, my hair wild in places, but there was hardly any moon left. Edward was waiting, his eyes dipping closed. All’s quiet, I said.


IX.

I woke alone feeling nauseated. The sun sat fat and high in the sky outside of our greenhouse windows. I moved quietly through the house, passing the cabinet room, through which I could see MaViolet’s back rise and fall. I moved through a narrow hallway and down the airless stairwell. At the open door near the cutouts of house slaves, I glimpsed a group of SCFP students in the stuffy dimness of the docents’ library. Gary holding court, a hardback splayed in his hands. LaToya beside him, gesturing like a game show hostess. He recited something in a staid professor voice, and the others laughed desperately. I slinked past their view, moving through the rough walls of the all-weather pass, toward the covered place where we took turns boiling water. The fire was out, but the water still felt warm. I filled a bucket and brought it with me into the old privy.

That bathroom stank of urine, of shit, even though we doused it in boiled water and tried to keep it clean. I bent to peer into the old handheld mirror, feeling like I might see a different person looking back at me. My face looked just the same—I had to pull back clothing and angle the mirror to locate the evidence. A thin scratch along my collar, a graying bruise on my arm. I shed my T-shirt entirely and stepped out of my filthy shorts. Faint steam rose from my bucket. I stood naked and shivering in the heat.

I ran my hand over the deep scrape along my hip and recalled the sensation of sliding. The muscles of my arms ached, but my belly remained a narrow lie. Who was the boy—who did he think he was? I shook the tight squeeze from my hands and unfolded one of the squares of fabric we kept there to wash up.

I dunked the rag into my bucket of tepid water, used it to wipe my face, my neck, my chest, my armpits. I wiped the broken skin on my hip and ankle. I wiped between my legs, between my toes. I stepped back into my rank clothing and walked out into the sun.

Out in the yard, the full heat of the day hit me, as if the air itself was a massive object to navigate. Hottest springtime on record, they’d said on the news, back when there’d been news. I wondered, was it summer yet, officially? And what would that season bring for us if we made it to summer? Summer in Virginia without AC, or antiperspirant. Without the water park on Cherry, or melty pops in their thin plastic sleeves. Summer without a breeze through a moving car’s window, or the hypnotic tick of the fan in Knox’s dorm room. Already I could feel sweat swamping my armpits, my chest. Back upstairs, I checked in on MaViolet: Her eyes were squeezed closed, her breath heavy but steady-sounding. I made myself sit near her bed a while, though I couldn’t bear to sit there long. And what was I doing to help her? I looked up at the oddly placed window above me, casting light and shadow on the ceiling. Not once as I sat there did MaViolet open her eyes.

As I moved through the rest of that sweltering afternoon, I saw the twins, down at the tree line, lugging a large fallen branch. I saw KJ and Jobari on their knees, in the dirt, and Imani a few rows over, twirling. I saw Ms. Edith in a chair in the shade, showing Yamileth how to set a straight stitch. In their small, exhausted motions, I could feel my own wrath burning off. Oh God, I thought. He was just a kid. What am I doing? What have I done?

Da’Naisha, someone said.

It was Carol, up on the west porch. My name always felt forced, the way she said it. Would it be too much trouble?

She was carrying a tall set of bowls, and at the same time, a bucket of utensils. The day had flown by me. The sun was beginning to sink, blazing treetops. It was almost suppertime again.

Let me get that, Knox said, coming up from behind me. I’d kept my eyes down, avoiding him that day as much as I could. He squeezed my shoulder before freeing the bucket from Carol’s grasp.

After we ate that evening, folks began to recount preparations for the coming day. Mr. Byrd and Devin had gotten the Town Car ready, checking the tires and making sure it started easily. Georgie had surveyed the roads below to see if they looked clear of brush and water. Ms. Edith had collected a list of house numbers, drawing and labeling a map of that loop from First Street to the twins’ house, and around to where the Floreses lived. Knox held the map out so that Carol could study it with him, trailing the route to town and back. I nodded, though I knew it wasn’t entirely safe: Part of me knew.

I know y’all are going, I heard myself announce to the group. I guess that makes sense. But I’m going too. When I said this aloud, I felt relief.

I felt like I had to go because I alone was sure to get my hands on MaViolet’s medication. But also, I needed to lay eyes on our duplex, if it still stood. I needed to see MaViolet’s shelving unit, her lifetime of collections. Somewhere toward the middle shelf was a photograph of all of us: MaViolet and Momma and me. Some Easter morning long before I knew Momma was sick, before I knew mommas could even get sick enough to leave you by dying. In the picture, we are a trinity of pastels with Momma in the middle, her white leatherette pocketbook swinging on a golden chain. Felt like MaViolet’s place was our dwindling family’s museum, and I needed to see it, as walls or ashes, one more time.