Memphis(49)

“I can sing,” she said, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke, then taking another puff. “You’ve heard me before. Don’t do it that often. Folk pass out. Honest. Once, years back, at your mama’s wedding, man fainted in a back pew. Had to be carried out. Hadn’t even noticed. Just went on singing Aretha in a way I do doubt Aretha could do it. But I never did anything with it. My voice. Not sure I wanted to, how folk went on and on whenever I let out a note. And well, I knew Who gave me this voice. But I did love piano. Wanted to play jazz. Loved Gershwin.”

She sat smoking in silence for a few moments before she continued.

“I will help you, niece. And I’ll work on your mama. Win her over. Guess I must. Because you have a gift. I think it’s high time somebody in this damn family with a gift use it.”

Auntie August finished her cigarette and, with a quick flick of her wrist, tossed the butt onto the driveway’s asphalt.

I began to gather my things, starting to think over what she’d said, but that’s when I felt Auntie August’s palm on my head. She began brushing back my stray hairs. My box braids, which she had done the month before, needed a bit of tightening in the front.

“I just may start praying after all. Because, Jesus Christ, who the hell going do your hair all the way over there in London, child?” she asked, as concerned as I’d ever heard her as she smoothed back my edges.

I laughed. “I probably won’t get in.”

Her hand stopped abruptly. It went to my chin and lifted my head so that our eyes locked. “You best get in. You hear me, niece? Do whatever you have to do. Draw as many hours a day you got to. I’ll help you. We’ll figure out a place to hide your drawings.” She paused, seeming to steel herself for something, then took a deep breath. “Derek’s room. Yes, child. We got to stow them somewhere. I’ll go in there if you won’t. I’ll do what I can, but you got to do what you must. And you must go over there and show them all, Joanie.”

From that Saturday onward, I stayed after class with Professor Mason and worked on my application to the Royal College of Art. The application consisted of my grades, my ACT score, and finally, my work. The Royal College required a portfolio of ten different works all focusing on a single subject matter. A series, as it’s called in the art world. Women. I wanted to showcase the women of Douglass, of North Memphis, of my family. Miss Dawn’s lovely hands. Miss Jade’s elaborate updos. Mika’s red acrylic nails. Ten in total. All in different mediums—oil paintings, charcoal drawings, black ink—and each on its own ten-foot-tall canvas.

I wasn’t sure if I would get in, if I was good enough. Every time I finished a piece, I would stand back and study and doubt would nestle into my thoughts. But Professor Mason insisted. Whenever I mentioned how unlikely it would be that I won the fellowship, he’d throw up a hand to shush me.

“No one in London is ready for these, child,” he said, examining a new portrait I’d brought in. “But you need more. And try watercolor this time.”



* * *



—

Miss Dawn, bless her, still sat for me once a month. I had spent long, lazy summer days on her front porch for years, and now I went over on weekends as the last vestiges of fall faded. I’d sketch her breaking green bean or picking butter lettuce and we’d talk of things that were and things that would be. She told me stories about my grandparents. How everyone in the neighborhood knew my grandfather had been a war hero. The only Negro combat engineer in his battalion. She told me that Myron came home from the war and everyone watched him in that yard picking out stones to lay the foundation of his wedding present to Hazel. As I sketched her, I listened to her tell the story of how Myron had built his Taj Mahal for Hazel.

Miss Dawn’s fading pink house was still standing. Amazingly, an ancient willow grew right through the center of it. Marsh wrens and hummingbirds nested in its maze of branches. One October evening, sitting before Miss Dawn on her crooked porch steps in the fading light, I filled her in on my plan.

“Hmmm,” she said when I had finished, and she patted her head underneath an elaborately tied headscarf. She was sitting on her porch swing wearing a long shift dress in a bright batik pattern that looked like fireworks over water. I sat beside her and after all the years I had sketched her, I still could not take my eyes off of her hands.

“You know your grandparents would sit here and talk nonsense, steal kisses, eat their ice-cream cones…” When she trailed off, she broke out into unrestrained laughter. “Your Papa could draw. Sure could. Drew up the plans for y’all’s house himself. Isn’t that something? And now, you runnin’ off to London—”

“I haven’t gotten in, Miss Dawn,” I chimed in, but she cut me off.

“And now you runnin’ off to London. I’ll help you. Your mama might burn down my house when she finds out. I know her heart set on you being a doctor. But that’s the path for your sister. You”—she aimed a bony, ancient finger at me—“you need to go ahead and dig up that boy’s comb. Yeah, I said it. Yeah, I remember, and I know you do, too.”

Derek. He would come into my thoughts every now and again, and I would push him back out. He was where he belonged: away from us. His absence had brought relief to my life. No more stomachaches at the very sight of him at the kitchen table. No making sure to avoid him, to leave whatever room he was in. I could wander around in my own home. I even discovered parts of the house I never knew existed. The back hallway leading to the west wing had a small enclave built into the wall. And there, surrounded by brick, was a hand-size Virgin Mary, her face painted a lovely doe brown. He’s gone, I’d remind myself, placing my pencil to the page. Thank you, God. Thank you so, so, so much, God. I prayed my gratitude to the Mother as I drew. Said three Hail Marys.