The Kindest Lie(103)
Mama’s hands and the comb still rested on top of Ruth’s head, but they hadn’t moved. Ruth turned around and looked up at her grandmother, trying to read her thoughts. She followed her eyes out the window to the porch, which was aglow with light. Ruth said, “I see you finally got the porch light fixed.”
“Dino came over and took care of it.”
Ruth teased her grandmother. “Oh? Seems like he’s spending a lot of time over here. You know, you could’ve invited him for New Year’s Eve.”
“Hush your mouth, girl.” She felt a light tap of the comb on the back of her neck, but she still heard the smile in Mama’s voice. “Now that there is exactly why I didn’t invite him.”
Then Mama got to humming something throaty and soulful, maybe gospel or jazz.
“Sing it, Mama.”
“When I was a little girl, that’s all I wanted to do was sing.”
“You used to sing around the house all the time.” She had stopped singing after Papa died and their house became eerily quiet.
“No, I wanted to really sing, onstage, you know. In front of lots of people. I’d heard about Leontyne Price learning to sing opera at the Juilliard School of Music in New York. They always make exceptions for one of us. But Black girls from Ganton, Indiana, didn’t go to Juilliard in the fifties and sixties. So, I stayed here, finished school, and made do working at the hotel.”
Ruth inhaled the Jergens lotion that Mama always slathered on her legs after her nightly bath. Greasing her fingers with oil, Mama slid them down the lines of Ruth’s scalp and followed that up with a spray sheen. Ruth laughed to herself thinking of the Coming to America Soul Glo stains she’d leave on the pillowcases that night.
“What are you smiling about, child?”
“Nothing, Mama. I’m just imagining you living your dream, singing professionally, with all those people spellbound under the power of your voice. You never told me that story about your singing dream.”
“I’m telling you now. And you know I’ve never been one for wasted words. Save your breath for when you die.”
As surely as Ruth knew another year had begun, she understood that Yale had been her Juilliard.
Forty
Ruth
New Year’s Day had been Papa’s favorite holiday, and he’d even let her and Eli sip from his spiked eggnog over the objections of their grandmother. It had become tradition for Mama to cook a feast, and this late morning, Ruth smelled black-eyed peas, corn bread, and collard greens.
From her bedroom window, she watched Eli toss a football on the street below with his sons in the same spot where you could probably still see the faded hopscotch lines from their youth. When the ball rolled onto the neighbors’ square patch of dirt, Keisha ran to fetch it.
By the time Ruth dressed and made it to the kitchen, she saw her sister-in-law mixing ingredients for a red velvet cake. By Mama’s side, sprinkling onions and garlic into the black-eyed peas, stood Dino.
“Happy N-N-New Year, Ruth,” he said, and wiped his hands on a red apron wrapped around his waist that read Real Men Cook.
“Same to you, Dino.” She pecked him on the cheek, showing Mama she approved of whatever and whoever made her happy. Still, she wondered about the timing of his arrival that morning and whether or not he had slipped in before the sun came up.
Under her grandmother’s careful supervision, Ruth rubbed brown sugar and vinegar on the pork roast. “Pick up that meat. It won’t bite. And don’t be stingy with the rub. Make sure you get some on the backside.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The front door opened and Ruth turned to greet her brother, but there, standing in the foyer, she saw Xavier, his face unreadable, looking like a mismatched piece of furniture in her old house. He started toward her like a horse just out the gate in a race, but pulled back, hesitant, suddenly shy and uncertain.
Her feet locked in place on the linoleum, and she froze there like a block of stone, her hands dripping with apple cider vinegar. All the lies and hurt feelings stood between them. Now, here he was in the house where she’d given birth.
People talked about straddling two worlds, but Ruth had never achieved that perfect balance. How could you find firm footing in one, enough to be rooted, without becoming a passing stranger in the other?
He took a halting step closer to her.
“Happy New Year.”
“Xavier.” Saying his name set her feet free. She ran into his arms and inhaled the woodsy scent of his soap. She felt the familiar beat of his heart. Hard and steady.
His hug felt different, though, not like one between a husband and wife, but more patronizing, the way rich society ladies hugged when they didn’t want to get too close to the proletariat class.
“Oh, sorry. My hands,” she said, realizing she’d smeared his coat. “Happy New Year.” Pulling away to look at him, she noticed the razor bumps along his throat. She hadn’t been there to remind him not to shave against the grain. Evidence that he might still need her. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
“Don’t be mad at her, but Tess filled me in on things.” He winked at her grandmother. “Then Mama Tuttle invited me over for her black-eyed peas. How could I say no to that?”
Mama popped him playfully with a dish towel and tried to hide her smile. Already, he had conferred a nickname on her grandmother, and she didn’t seem to mind at all.