The Vanishing Half(73)

“But I could never tell my mother any of this,” she said. “She’d just say that she was right. She cares more about being right than being my mother. Sometimes I don’t even think she likes me very much. Isn’t that something? To think your own mother can’t even stand you.”

She was smiling but her violet eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Jude said.

“Well, you don’t know her, do you?” Kennedy said.



* * *



—

THAT NIGHT, for the final time, she witnessed Kennedy Sanders transform under the spotlight.

Kennedy strutting out for the opening number in the town square, singing her contemplative solo in the cemetery, high-kicking on the bar during the act-closing dance with a chorus of drunk ghosts. Onstage, you couldn’t tell the girl had just been crying. She became new each time she stepped under the lights. After the first act ended, applause ringing in the theater, Jude waded through the crowd to the concession stand. She was shoveling lukewarm popcorn into a paper bag when she saw, finally, Stella.

Her mother, but not. That’s the only way she could think of her. Like her mother’s face transplanted onto another woman’s body. Stella wore a long green dress, her hair pulled into a low bun. Diamond earrings, black pumps. She was fiddling with a leather pocketbook as she glided through the lobby, rolling her neck a little before she smiled at a tall man holding open the door. For a second, in that smile, she was Mama. Then the mask slid back on, another woman taking over.

There was no time to think. Jude abandoned the popcorn station and followed, pushing through the crowded lobby to the door. Outside, she found Stella standing under the eaves, fumbling for a cigarette. She glanced over, startled by the sudden intrusion, and Jude froze. Her first stupid thought was that Stella might recognize her. She’d see something familiar in her face—her eyes, or her mouth even—and then she would gape, her pocketbook falling open on the sidewalk. But Stella’s eyes glazed over and she stared moodily into the street. Jude alone with the pounding heart.

“Hi,” Jude said. “I’m friends with your daughter.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Stella paused, then lit her cigarette.

“From school?” she said. Her voice was smoother, softer.

“No, from the play.”

“Oh. Lovely,” Stella said.

It was a word her mother would have never used. Lovely. Stella gave a little smile, then she took a drag, glancing up at the eave.

“Did you want a cigarette?” she asked.

Jude almost said yes. At least then she’d have a reason to be standing there.

“No,” she said. “I don’t smoke.”

“Good girl,” Stella said. “They say it’s awful for your health.”

“I know. My mother’s trying to quit.”

Stella glanced at her. “It’s terribly difficult to quit,” she said. “All the best things are.”

Intermission was nearly over; soon Stella would head back inside, disappearing into the darkness of the theater. When the play ended, she would join the crowd surging out onto the street. She would go home, and maybe later that night, in a quiet moment, she would think about that dark girl who’d interrupted her smoke break, and then she’d never remember the moment again.

“Kennedy said you’re from Louisiana,” Jude finally said. “I am too. I’m from Mallard.”

Stella glanced at her, an eyebrow slightly arched. Nothing in her body changed, nothing suggested that she’d even heard except for that tiny lift of her eyebrow.

“All right,” she said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know it.”

“My mama—” Jude took a breath. “My mama’s name is Desiree Vignes.”

Now Stella turned toward her.

“Who the hell are you?” she said quietly.

“I told you, my mama—”

“Who are you? What’re you doing here? I don’t understand.”

She was partly smiling but she held the cigarette away from her body, warning Jude not to come closer. She was angry—Jude hadn’t expected that. Stella would be confused. Startled, even. But maybe once the surprise wore off, she’d thought, Stella might be glad to meet her. She might even marvel at all the works of chance that had drawn them together. Instead, Stella shook her head, as if trying to wake herself from a nightmare.

“I wanted to meet you,” Jude said.

“No no no, I don’t understand. Who are you really? You look nothing like her.”

Through the window, the lobby lights flickered. She was supposed to be guiding people back to their seats. Her supervisor was probably going crazy, looking for her. And what would he find if he stepped outside right now—a black girl pleading for a white woman to recognize her.

“She told me how you used to hide in the bathroom,” Jude said. “At that laundry place in New Orleans. She said you almost cut your hand off.” She was rambling now, willing to say anything to keep Stella from leaving. Stella took a shaky drag, then stomped out her cigarette on the sidewalk.

“She would never go back to Mallard,” she said.

“Well, we had to. To get away from my daddy. He kept beating on her.”