Читать книгу The Book of Harlan - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 35

Chapter 27

“The service was lovely. Closed casket, of course.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have wanted to see that child all burned up.”

“You ain’t never seen a burned body?”

“No ma’am. Have you?”

“Girl, I’m from Mississippi, stringing niggers up and setting them afire is the official state pastime.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m from Chicago. Anyway, I wish I could have made the funeral, but you know I had to work.”

“But you made the wake, right?”

“No, Mrs. Trellis had a dinner party that day. She asked me to work it, even though it was my day off. What was I supposed to say? No, Mrs. Trellis, I gots a wake to attend?”

“Who you think you fooling, girl? Just say you did it for the extra money.”

“Well, I ain’t never said no to a dollar!”

“You say no, and somebody right there next to you saying yes.”

“You got that right, Lenora!”

“Lemme ask you something, Josephine: can you imagine setting yourself on fire?”

“’Course not! And I don’t want to believe such a thing!”

“What a horrible way to die.”

“Terrible.”

“Why you think she did it?”

“Girl, that is the question for the ages. But you know she never did seem right to me. A little off in the head, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re kind. Bless your heart. Tell the truth now, the girl was strange. The way she just stared . . . Honestly, I didn’t like being ’round her.”

“I felt the same.”

“So what else?”

“Well, the repast was at the Elliotts’.”

“Was it now?”

“I tell you one thing, that Emma Elliott knows how to lay a table!”

“Hmmm, well, you know, she always down for a party. You ever pass her house on Saturday night? Music blaring and folks jumping ’round like frogs.”

“Well, Lenora, I would not consider a repast a party.”

“Okay, okay. How’s the mother holding up?”

“Mayemma? She a mess, of course. Any mother would be.”

“Yes.”

“And the boy, her son . . . What’s his name again?”

“John.”

“John? Such a simple name, I don’t know why I can’t ever remember it. How is he doing?”

“He sad. Blew his horn in his sister’s honor.”

“At the church?”

“Nah, outside on the sidewalk. Stood straight as a soldier, aimed his horn to the heavens, and blew like an angel.”

“Aww, that’s nice. What he play?”

“Don’t know, but the tune sho’ was sad. Mayemma had to be carried away.”

“You go upstairs?”

“Don’t think terrible of me now, but I was just dying to see!”

“So you did go upstairs?”

“I did.”

“Is it like they say? She did it in the kitchen?”

“Whoever they is, they got their information wrong. She did it in the bathroom.”

“In the bathroom? Why they say she did it in the kitchen?”

“’Cause that’s where she got the can of grease.”

“Grease?”

“Uh-huh. I hear she poured grease over herself before she . . . well, you know.”

“Lawd Jesus, fix it.”

“Too late for that. Lucky she did it in the bathroom. If not, the whole house would have gone up in flames.”

“Why the bathroom so special?”

“’Cause she lit herself up in the tub. Cast iron, don’t you know.”

“Oh yeah. So you saw it. The bathroom?”

“You know I’ve always been light on my feet.”

“Like a dancer, you are!”

“Uh-huh. I tipped right up them stairs and was back down before anyone missed me.”

“What’d you see?”

“First, it stinks to high heaven up there. You can still smell the smoke, and her . . .”

“What?”

“Skin. Flesh. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“Oh.”

“And the bathroom tile is as black as I don’t know what.”

“Like she was?”

“It ain’t right to talk ill of the dead.”

“Just trying to lighten the mood. Go ’head on.”

“Well, Emma is just torn to bits. You’d think she lost her own child. And Harlan, well, he ain’t handling it any better. Emma say every other night he wakes up screaming Darlene’s name.”

“He dreaming ’bout her? Make sense. How Sam holding up?”

“You can never tell with him. But I suspect he hurting too.”

“So sad.”

“Ain’t it though? Anyway, Mayemma and that boy of hers moving out to New Jersey.”

“New Jersey!”

“Mayemma say she done with Harlem.”

“My goodness, there are other places in New York she can move to. Brooklyn, for example.”

“Brooklyn? Who in their right mind wanna live in that ass-backward place? Nothing but bumpkins live in Brooklyn.”

“True.”

“When she leaving?”

“She’s already gone. Left two days after the funeral.”

“Aww, that’s a shame. I sho’ would have liked to have said goodbye.”

* * *

After the tragedy, Emma placed their Saturday-night house parties on hiatus, but word of mouth was slow to spread. The following weekend some folks showed up as usual, bottles in hand, ready to party. Even though the house was dark and as quiet as a tomb, they still rang the bell.

When Emma opened the door, her solemn face said it all. But some people just aren’t very perceptive.

“Girl, you look like someone died!” a woman cackled.

Emma didn’t crack a smile.

“Wait, someone died for real?”

Emma closed the door without a word.