Seven Days in June(96)

Eva believed in signs. She knew something dramatic was coming her way. She just didn’t know what.

When she finally untangled herself from the swing, brushing dirt off her cutoffs and cursing to herself, she saw that Mama Fay had woken up.

The old woman laughed a little, a twinkly, tickled sound. “Mercier women. Y’all do get yourselves tangled up in it, don’t you?”





Three days later…





Today, 3:14 PM


SHANE: I’m leaving 81 Horatio forever.

EVA: You didn’t rent it for the whole summer?

SHANE: I didn’t think that far. Yeah, so now I gotta find a new place. I’m in Crown Heights, right now, about to see an apartment. The fuck’s Kennedy Fried Chicken?

EVA: Stay at my house.

SHANE: Absolutely not. That’s crossing every line.

EVA: No, it’s not! It’s empty, for the rest of the summer. You’d be keeping an eye on the place. Really, you’re doing me a favor.

SHANE: THIS FEELS WEIRD.

EVA: It shouldn’t.

SHANE: YOU SURE?

EVA: YES, STOP YELLING. And what’s a dermoid?

SHANE: You and Audre been talking about me, I see.

EVA: No, we were talking about her stepmom, Athena. Who had a dermoid.

SHANE: Ask Audre if Athena has pictures.





Later that evening…





Today, 5:35 PM


EVA: Hey. I just arrived in New Orleans. I found the house that my great-grandma Delphine owned. The one who mysteriously left grandma Clo at birth, and moved to New Orleans to pass as a Fauxtalian? I met the granddaughter of her housemaid for coffee. She said Clo didn’t abandon the baby at all. When Delphine’s husband saw that Baby Clo was much browner than he and Delphine, he accused her of cheating—in the middle of mass at St. Frances! Then he ran her out of town. She wasn’t cheating, of course. You and I know that Black folks come out all different shades and colors. But Delphine never forgave herself for abandoning her baby. Remember I told you she wrote a message in lipstick on her bathroom tiles, before drowning herself in the tub? Passant Blanc, the term for Blacks passing for white. She didn’t just write it on the wall. She scrawled it all over her body, apparently. Her white son paid a fortune to the NOLA police to keep the scandal out of the papers and off record, to maintain the lie of his “racial purity.”

SHANE: That’s…chilling. The cruelties of colorism. And imagine what we don’t know. What’s her side of the story?

EVA: It’s all pretty intense.

EVA: .….

EVA: .…

SHANE: You okay?

EVA: Sometimes I wish you were here. Experiencing this with me.

SHANE: It’s all I think about.





The next day…





Today, 2:15 PM


EVA: Since I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours as a go-between, I’ve decided to start a thread with all three of us. Talk amongst yourselves.

AUDRE: Mr. Hall!

SHANE: Ms. Mercy-Moore! What’s good? How’s Dadifornia?

AUDRE: It’s fun, but this year is different. I’m noticing things in a more…anthropological way. The differences between people, depending on where they’re from. There’s a North Cali accent! And people dress differently than Brooklyn kids. Like, they wear Fila instead of Adidas. You know, the older I get, the more my awareness of what is cool is heightened.

SHANE: I like that. There’s a difference between being cool and being cool-aware.

AUDRE: Mr. Hall, you get me. Do you like our place?

SHANE: I do! But I miss you guys. It’s hard being around your stuff, and not getting to chill with you two.

AUDRE: Are you lonely?

SHANE: A little. So. Your mom doesn’t want me to ask you for therapy advice, butttt.….

EVA: SHANE.

SHANE: …I lost someone I was close to, and it’s hard. Therapy doesn’t work for me. (No offense.) Any suggestions?

AUDRE: Mr. Hall, you should really go to therapy. Black men don’t go, and it’s an epidemic.





The next day…

“Hi. My name is Shane, and I’m an alcoholic—and a drug addict sometimes. I don’t want to be here, but a little girl told me I needed to talk about my problems, and honestly, she’s only twelve but she’s really fucking…astute. So. I guess I’m here now. Or whatever. Yeah, so th-thanks for having me.” He paused. “You’re a great-looking crowd.”

In unison, the Greenwood Baptist Church chapter of Park Slope Alcoholics Anonymous said, “Hello, Shane.”

“He writes a lot better than he talks,” whispered a bleary-eyed redhead in the back.





The following Monday…

The day he’d moved in, Eva had sent Shane five huge dracaena plants from IKEA.

“For your protection,” the note said.

Shane had no idea what this meant, but he watered those plants religiously. He even faced them toward the sun, to optimize the photosynthesis. But one by one, like clockwork, they died. Shane didn’t have the heart to throw them out, though. They were from her.

He did notice a funny thing, though. He was surrounded by deceased flora—but he felt better than ever.