The Kindest Lie(101)
“I know,” she answered him. “I know you’re sorry.”
His shoulders drooped even more, and he reminded her of a ship bobbing in the ocean before sinking. She got up and walked to the front door, but then paused. Turning back to face him, she said, “At least nine days, maybe weeks.”
When he gave her a puzzled look, she smiled. “I’m just answering your question. That’s how long a cockroach can live with its head cut off.”
The sliver of light she saw now didn’t come from the little Christmas tree in the window, but from his eyes.
Thirty-Nine
Ruth
On New Year’s Eve, Mama had always admonished her children to stay home and off the streets. To avoid drunk drivers and itchy trigger fingers and wayward firecrackers. She even skipped Watch Night services at Friendship. Usually, Ruth spent this night celebrating with Xavier and their friends at a downtown Chicago hotel.
There were some battles in life you had to fight alone, but your burden grew lighter—or at least it seemed that way—when you huddled close to somebody in the bunker. Xavier had always been by her side helping her soldier on. Being apart from him these past few weeks felt like having limbs idled and cut off from the heart pumping blood to them. She ached to see him and make things right. She ached to kiss him at the stroke of midnight, but that wasn’t to be.
But this year, for the first time ever, Ruth sat alone with Mama watching Dick Clark count down until the ball dropped in Times Square and couples kissed openmouthed on national TV. They didn’t say anything to each other, because any words they used would be sharp, jagged enough to cut and draw blood. When they’d had enough of viewing a million strangers usher in the new year, they retired to their respective bedrooms.
Sitting on her bed in silence, Ruth decided she couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer and knocked on her grandmother’s bedroom door.
“It’s open.” Mama was still awake, in her blue terry cloth robe, tying her hair with a black satin scarf.
A wide-tooth comb lay on the dresser. Ruth picked it up and, with a trembling hand, held it out to her.
“Get down on the floor.” Mama perched on the edge of the bed with Ruth sitting cross-legged at her feet. The comb sounded like the scrape of a rake as Mama pulled it through Ruth’s tightly coiled hair. This had been their ritual every night when she was a little girl, and she eased into the feel of Mama braiding her hair again.
“Ouch.” Mama’s thick thighs tightened around the sides of her granddaughter’s head.
“You’re still tender-headed, I see.” She tugged the comb more gently in Ruth’s kitchen, the kinky hair at the nape of her neck.
They hadn’t finished their conversation from Sunday about Mama’s role working in cahoots with Pastor Bumpus and DeAngelo to fix things. Nor had they spoken about what had happened at the river. But all Ruth could think about now was how she had found her son after all these years and then almost lost him. Instinctively, Mama knew.
“You haven’t said a lot since the other morning.” Mama leaned down so she could look Ruth in the eye. “You finally met your boy. You all right?”
“I’m fine, or at least I will be. It’s Corey I worry about. Those cops could’ve killed him. I keep thinking about Amadou Diallo all those years ago, and every Black boy who has to be tense all the time not knowing what might happen. Mothers and fathers are scared every time their sons walk out the door.”
The movement of the comb through Ruth’s hair stopped. Mama said, “Brings back those memories of Alfonso getting lynched. Just when you think things have changed, you get more of the same. I worried myself sick about your brother when he was growing up. Still do. That’s why I doted on him so much. Thought I could love on him enough to keep him safe.”
“I’m just glad Corey has the Cunninghams to lean on.”
“Did I hear you right?”
Admitting that suddenly felt like giving in, acknowledging that Mama’s machinations had yielded something good. But she’d meant what she said. “Yeah, I know he’s where he’s supposed to be.”
“It’s all about doing what’s right by your child. Mothers sacrifice. We put our babies first. Before ourselves. I didn’t want it all to come out like this, but it did, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it now.”
Mama seemed more than resigned now. Maybe unburdened after holding her secrets inside so long. Ruth hadn’t thought to consider the toll it had taken on her grandmother trying to orchestrate everything behind the curtain.
“And someday Corey will get over finding everything out the way he did,” Mama added.
“How did you know you were doing the right thing when I got pregnant?”
Mama paused before parting another section of hair, greasing Ruth’s scalp. “There’s no right way to be a mother. You do what you know how to do at the time and pray it all comes out okay in the end. I think of it like baking a cake. You pour all your best ingredients in the bowl. Flour, sugar, eggs, and real butter—no yogurt or applesauce substitutes, either. You mix it real good and then put it in the oven and you wait for it to rise. Take it out too early, it won’t be done, or it may fall.” She bent close to Ruth’s ear and said, “You were my precious cake. Your papa and I poured everything we had into you. You still had a lot of rising to do in this world. I didn’t want you to fall.”