The House of Eve (96)

When I arrived in North Philadelphia, at the corner of 29th and Diamond Street, it felt strange to be back home. My fingers were stiff and cold from gripping my bags against the early evening wind that whipped at newspapers and snatched cans and wrappers up and down the street. As I climbed the steps to the second floor, a stench drifted down from Mr. Leroy’s apartment, and I wondered if Shimmy’s father was up there drinking under the guise of collecting rent. This thought led me to Shimmy, but I shoved him to the back of my mind as I pressed open the door.

Aunt Marie’s old floors moaned beneath my feet, and I was greeted by slips of paper folded around dimes. I scooped the numbers up off the floor and placed them on the coffee table for her to sort, before I fell back into the couch. It felt good to be home among Aunt Marie’s mismatched furniture, with the sound of water dripping from her leaky faucet. I wasn’t even bothered by the gassy smell of the old furnace that was only slightly masked by the boiled cinnamon potpourri. Instead, these familiarities comforted me.

Eventually, I peeled myself off the couch and made my way to the tiny bathroom. I turned on the faucet to the shower and it spit, then sputtered, while the pipes rattled. The water warmed, and I stripped off my bra and panties and stepped into the narrow tub. The steam unraveled the wall I had constructed, and as I scrubbed my skin, the pain I had suffered coagulated around my feet, refusing to go down the drain.

I cried. I wept for my baby, Grace, who would never know my name or recall my touch. Who wouldn’t grow up with my voice at her ear, knowing that I had loved her. My chest heaved for my body that would forever be changed, for all the girls who had been forced to surrender their babies.

I cried for all the girls—for the ones who had been in love with the boys who had knocked them up, for the ones who were forced into the back seats of cars by boys they didn’t know how to push away. One girl had even whispered about being raped by her older brother. I cried for her, too.

I cried for Clara, for Loretta, for Georgia Mae. I cried for Bubbles, who I hoped was doing okay, and I cried because I knew that hope was not enough.

When I had exhausted myself, I wrapped a towel around my puffy body, dragged my feet to the living room and went to bed. I slept fitfully, my arms cradled in front of me. Hugging the memory of Grace.

Aunt Marie was there when I woke in the morning. I opened my swollen eyes to the sight of her dressed in overalls and a baggy T-shirt.

“Welcome back, sweetness.” She had a cup of coffee in front of her at the kitchen table, and her yellow numbers pad open.

“Morning.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Okay.” It was cold. The furnace must have gone out again.

“Your mother asked about you. Nene too. I told them you were in D.C. at an internship. So you better come up with something good. Nene might be blind, but ain’t nothing wrong with that old mind of hers.” Aunt Marie chuckled, but it lacked the heartiness I was used to. Like she was trying to take my mind off all that had happened.

Aunt Marie had always been good at reading my feelings, and she crossed the room in seconds and wrapped me up in her girth. It felt good to be held and I crumpled against her.

“It’s going to be all right, sweetness. You did the right thing.”

We sat like that for a while, with Aunt Marie rubbing my back and letting me cry it out.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“You sure?” She held me at arm’s length.

Then she rose and poured herself another cup of coffee from the percolator on the stovetop. With her back to me, she pushed aside the makeshift curtain and reached under the sink. I could see her hands rattle as she tipped her flask of liquor into her coffee and then brought the cup to her lips.



* * *



Aunt Marie had picked up a second gig working at a new club on South Street, and between her work there and her job at Kiki’s, she was gone every night of the week. I drifted through the halls of my high school feeling alienated, numb and disconnected. Senior pictures, class rings, basketball rivalries and plans for prom didn’t excite me, and I mostly kept to myself. On Saturday I returned to We Rise, to a smaller cohort. We had been winnowed down to the six brightest of the bunch, and when I walked into the classroom for the first time in months, all the students turned and gawked at me. I stood frozen, clutching my books in my arm, blocking the small pudge that still hung around my stomach.

Mrs. Thomas’s face opened. “Welcome back, Miss Pearsall. I trust your prestigious internship in Washington, D.C., went well?”

I swallowed. “Yes, it was an amazing experience. I learned a lot about… government.”

“Wonderful, I will give you a chance in the next couple of weeks to fill us in on your experience. For now, we are working on narrative essay writing. Please sit down and get yourself acclimated.”

I moved to an empty seat next to the window, wondering if Mrs. Thomas had been privy to my charade. If she was, she gave no indication. After class, I hung back and handed her an accordion folder containing every assignment that I had missed.

That evening, I sat at the kitchen table with a slice of peanut butter toast, alternating between a physics assignment and reading Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. Filling my mind with literature and tough mathematical equations was a good distraction, at least for a few hours.

I was hunkered over the kitchen table, reading about Janie complaining to Nanny about wanting to want her new husband, Logan, when there was a knock at the door. Guessing that it was one of Aunt Marie’s numbers clients, I kept on reading, but the knocking continued. I got up and opened it.