Читать книгу Mulberry - Paulette Boudreaux - Страница 7

AT THE TOP OF my mulberry tree, October wind curled around the branches, snaking through the soft yellow leaves, making them sway and hiss in the air around me. A few of the leaves released their claim and danced toward the bare dirt thirty feet below. Goose bumps rose on my face and arms and I clenched my teeth against the chill, but I wasn’t ready to climb down and go inside. I was chewing my cud, as my mother would have said. In fact, I had come outdoors into the chilly air and climbed as high as I could go—to get away from her and the aggravations of my younger brothers, Earl and Roy Anthony especially.

Straddling my favorite branch with my back pressed against the strong trunk, the world seemed benign and uncomplicated. I could let my tangled thoughts and hurt feelings unravel and float away on the wind like pieces of string.

Above me the sky fanned out like pale turquoise. Below me lay my segregated Mississippi community. This enclave of dirt roads and shotgun houses was called Harvest Quarters. The neighborhood was surrounded by dense woods, but most of the houses sat in barren yards along a wide dirt road that arced off of the main street into the woods for about a mile, curving like a giant horseshoe to the place where it emptied back onto the street. A creek had etched a deep ravine that ran through the woods at the heart of the Quarters and disappeared into the rural areas beyond. There were dirt footpaths that meandered down to the creek. In the summer I had ventured down a few of them, though Momma had told me never to follow any of those paths and to stay away from the creek.

I gazed along the road to the place where it curved into woods and disappeared into the bowels of the Quarters, and there was Daddy, emerging slowly, his eyes trained on the ground, his boots crunching quietly in the gravel. His steps were deliberate, and he was swinging his metal lunch-bucket with rhythm like he was keeping time to a song. He seemed heroic to me then as I watched him striding toward home in his gray khaki work clothes and heavy black boots. My heart opened out with relief, and I started my long climb down. Momma’s mood always shifted into someplace easy and my brothers reined in their restless little-boy energy when Daddy was home and we all sat down for supper.

I had almost reached the ground when I heard Daddy’s voice behind me.

“Baby Girl, what you doing up in that tree in this cold air?” Daddy asked. “You and your momma at odds again? What’s it this time?”

I jumped down the final few feet and ran to where he had stopped in the road across from our house. “I didn’t pass my spelling test this week,” I said. “Momma called me lazy. Said I didn’t put enough effort in,” I added, conjuring as many of my hurt feelings as I could recall like a small storm inside my chest. Mostly my wounded emotions had fragmented and floated off on the wind at the top of my mulberry tree. It was mainly the tight pinch of indignation and shame that came forward again.

The lines on Daddy’s forehead softened. He looked relieved, then he grinned at me. “Well did you?”

“Course I did. Momma even helped me study,” I said.

“Your momma know you ain’t lazy. Don’t take too deep what she say. She ain’t her natural self these days.”

Even at eleven, I didn’t have to think about it long to know he was right. My mother was carrying a baby inside her then, had been since before the summer started. In this, her fifth pregnancy, as in all the others, her belly had expanded selfishly around the baby. But this time the swelling hadn’t stopped with her belly. It was as if the baby was filling up every part of her body. Her face and neck were heavy and swollen. Even her legs had swelled, thick and smooth like naked tree trunks.

“She hurt my feelings, Daddy,” I said, kicking at the ground in front of me. I still wasn’t ready to be sympathetic. I wanted Daddy to say something or do something to make me feel better. I could usually count on him for that. I didn’t need much.

“Y’all’s schooling important to your momma,” he said. “You being the oldest she expects a lot from you.”

“But—”

“Come here.”

He extended his arm toward me. I went forward. He pulled me to his side and put his arm across my shoulder. “Thicken your hide a little bit more, Baby Girl. Here,” he said, releasing me and pressing his scratched and dented black metal lunch box against my chest. “You need a hard shell like this pail. Maybe we can make you a tin suit.”

He grinned at me again and put one wide callused palm on the top of my head. He rocked my head back and forth gently. I closed my eyes, pressing the cold metal lunch box into my chest and feeling the warmth from his hand radiate into my scalp.

“Maddy, listen. Grown folk ain’t easy to figure. Sometimes we get beside ourselves. Say things we don’t mean. Do things we can’t account for. Your momma’s outside how she normally is ’cause of her condition. She’ll get back to herself after the baby comes.”

I wanted to say I didn’t remember her ever being so mean before, especially to me. But when I opened my eyes to look up at Daddy, he was frowning and his jaw was clenched.

“I’m late,” he said, lifting his hand from my head and turning toward home. “I know your momma’s been holding supper for me. Probably getting madder by the minute. Let’s get on inside.”

“Everything gon’ be fine,” he said, his eyes trained on the ground again as he went ahead of me into the yard.

Looking back to that fall day, I want to say that I noted something in the tone of his voice that wasn’t especially convincing, or that I had a feeling of some kind. But all I can say with certainty is that when I walked into the house with Daddy behind me and saw the look of relief that flashed across my mother’s face, and listened to the happy greetings the boys showered on Daddy, I had no idea how a world could shift on its axis in a way no one expected, making normal impossible to find.

It was my parents’ whispering that woke me, summoning me from my dreams to face a drama that had begun to unfold while I slept. Their hushed, urgent tones pushed through the stagnant night air and penetrated the plank wall that separated their room from the one I shared with my younger brothers.

“Hurry up, Gene,” Momma hissed. Her whisper cracked, exposing a taut, serpentine voice. “This one’s different than the others. I can’t tell how much time I got.”

Fear rose in me. In the silvery darkness, I scanned the nooks of the room where I slept, trying to find a hiding place for my imagination. I looked into the dull shadow of the big ill-painted dresser where our clothes were kept; into the corner beside the rickety rocking chair that used to belong to our grandmother; at the foot of my bed beside the marred wooden trunk that had belonged to our great-grandmother; into the bed across the room from me where nine-year-old Roy Anthony and seven-year-old Earl slept. I listened to the adenoidal breathing of my two-year-old brother, June Bug, who slept beside me, his tiny dark head lolled in the folds of his pillow. I stared into the dark cave of his open mouth.

In the other room, Daddy mumbled something and the bedsprings on his and Momma’s bed sighed with relief. Daddy’s booted feet clumped across the wooden floor. The front door whined open, then shut, and Daddy was gone.

Momma moaned and began panting. It occurred to me that maybe she was about to have the baby that had been growing in her. I gazed at the ceiling and pictured her body, swollen big with the baby that had been riding low in her stomach for about a month now. “Babies move around,” she had said, irritated when I pointed out that her stomach looked different. When the baby was first growing there, her belly had been high and round like a volleyball. Now it looked more like a long smooth watermelon lying on its side.

“How come babies move around?” I prodded.

“Babies ain’t none of your business,” she told me, and refused to say any more. This was how it often was between us, her mouth closing down around certain secrets, her eyes warning me to move on to something else.

When each of my brothers was born, I had been sleeping, or at school, or someplace else out of the way. This had been fine with me since I had never been especially interested in knowing much about the arrival of babies. What I really wanted to know was why Momma kept bringing home brothers and no sisters.

The front door hinges whined again. “The taxicab will be here directly,” Daddy said, breathless. He had probably run out of the Quarters to the main street and the nearest pay telephone in front of Watkins’ Grocery Store a half mile away, then back home again. I imagined him standing in the doorway, sweaty but calm, puffing and holding his chest like I did when I was winded.

“What you think?” Daddy asked.

“You may as well gone get Maddy up. She big enough now. I can tell her what to do,” Momma answered.

The light from my parents’ room crept across my face as the door to my and the boys’ room opened. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep as Daddy tiptoed in. His shadow spread over me and June Bug. “Maddy,” he whispered, his voice sounding strangely hollow as he leaned over the bed. His breath, with its sweet metallic scent, brushed my cheek. “Maddy,” he said again, lifting my hand from the quilt and shaking it, as if he were introducing me to something.

I groaned and tried to turn away from him. The dry emotions I sensed in the folds of his voice and the desperate pressure of his fingers on my hand made me uneasy. I didn’t want any part of whatever it was Momma thought I was big enough for now.

“Maddy, we need you to get up,” Daddy said, squeezing my fingers more aggressively in his calloused palms. “Come on now. Get on up. Your momma needs you.”

My heart beat wildly in my ears, as I sat up, crawled out of bed, and followed him into their room.

Momma sat on the edge of their bed wearing a green spaghetti-strapped summer dress with tiny yellow flowers on it. She had always warned me against wearing summer clothes after the first frost, yet here she sat on a chilly October night, dressed for summer.

Momma’s coarse black hair was pulled back into a nappy pony-tail at the base of her neck. The harsh glare of the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling made the tiny beads of sweat on her forehead sparkle like jewels against her dark skin. Her face was puffed and swollen and she was hunched forward over the baby in her belly. She looked up at me with fierce, almost angry eyes.

“Maddy, I’m fixing to go to the hospital,” she said, reaching toward me.

I went to her reluctantly, afraid of the fierceness. Her cold damp hands clutched mine as I faced her. I bit the inside of my cheek when she trembled and squeezed my fingers in a crab-like grip. She shut her eyes and bent forward over her stomach again. Her cheeks quivered and she growled low in her throat then began panting, and I figured that the baby was tearing at her from inside.

My twelve-year-old friend Esther had told me that babies tore through their mothers’ flesh when they were ready to be born. “The mamas scream and holler and they bleed like pigs on killing day,” she had said with the air of authority. I had listened, certain it was one of her many lies. “That’s why ladies have to stay in the hospital so long after they have a baby,” she continued. “They have to get sewed back together. When they gets home you can see the lines on they stomachs where the skin growed back together.”

Back in the middle of summer when the weather was right for Momma’s spaghetti-strapped dress, Esther had extracted a promise from me. “Let’s swear we ain’t never going to have no babies,” she demanded. We sat in the breezy shade of a weeping willow tree near the Harvest Quarters creek and went so far as to make a blood and spit pact to seal the agreement. I allowed her to prick the palm of my right hand with the hungry point of a pin. I watched the tiny crimson bubble of life rise, anxious to cover the hole the pin had made in the middle of my palm, while she pricked her own palm. Then we spit in our left palms and stared at each other, awed by the power of the ritual we had set in motion. Esther crossed her arms at the elbows and extended her hands toward me. “You too,” she said. “Now gimme.” I reached out, clasping her hands, my right palm to her right palm, my left palm to her left palm. “Blood to blood, water to water …,” she intoned and closed her eyes, shutting me out of the darkness and desperation that made her so hateful toward her future.

“Are you listening to me, Maddy?” Momma’s voice cut into my remembering. Her eyes were like shiny black and white marbles. “Sorry, sugar,” she said, shaking my hands. “Don’t look so scared. Everything is going to be fine. Daddy’s about to take me to the hospital so I can deliver this new baby. You big enough to help out now and I need you to look out after the boys, ’specially tonight and tomorrow morning till your daddy gets back home. You going to need to help him and Mother Parker take care of the boys till I get back home in a week.”

I glanced back at Daddy. He stood in the doorway, shoulders slumped, hands thrust deep into his pockets. He nodded.

“Every day after Daddy goes to work, you gone need to make sure the boys eat something,” she continued. “Make sure Roy and Earl wash their faces and comb they heads and put on good school clothes. Take June Bug to Mother Parker’s before y’all go on to school. Then come straight home like always, pick up Junie Boy and wait for your Daddy. You hear me? Take care of your brothers. Keep them out of harm’s way. Promise me you’ll do that, Maddy.”

Momma’s fingernails dug into my palms as if she and I were making a pact like Esther and I had done. Momma’s eyelids narrowed and fluttered, her jaw and lips clenched, and she arched her back, making the thin fabric of her dress draw tight against her belly. It was no longer smooth like a watermelon. It was knotted and lumpy. I stared at the unmistakable shape of the curled desperate baby beneath her flesh. I was at once horrified and awestruck. The baby wasn’t clawing, or scratching, or tearing its way out as Esther had said babies did to get born. Suddenly, I was aware that something frighteningly significant was happening to Momma and the baby. It went beyond Esther’s dark warnings about how babies came into the world, and it went beyond any of my small fears. I relaxed into Momma’s grip, wanting to enter into that place where she was—fearless, strong.

“Promise me you’ll take care of your brothers,” Momma said again, shaking me so I looked up to face the fierce pain in her eyes. “Promise me.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“I promise,” I said, and to my own ears I sounded like an angry child.

Momma let go of my hands and leaned back on the bed, bracing herself with her arms. She closed her eyes, dropped her head back, and panted. I backed toward the door and bumped into Daddy. He put his hands on my shoulders and dug his fingers into my flesh. I turned to look up at him. His mouth hung open. His tongue was pressed against his bottom teeth. He had put the baby there, but he was helpless now that it wanted out. I turned back to Momma.

Her spine was curved in a graceful arch. The rounded outline of her breast and her belly rose like a lumpy mountain range at her center. Her breath was steady and shallow, moving in and out of her throat with the rhythmic precision of girls twirling a jump rope. Her image slid away from me like something seen through the wrong end of binoculars—far away and out of reach. She had become a work of art, a glass figurine that could be won as a prize at the state fair. Admiration washed over me like a warm sparkling liquid, slowing the thumping of my heart and calming my breath.

For a long moment I was suspended in a silent world with Momma where the air swirled around us like particles of light.

The moment passed, and Momma returned to herself, exhaling a long slow breath of satisfaction and relief. She lowered her head, sat up straight, looked at me, and smiled, a coconspirator’s smile that pulled me into the white-hot experience of pregnant womanhood. Her eyes, dark fiery slits of charcoal and ivory, beckoned, called me to acknowledge her world—a place of exquisite pain and joy. Did you see? they seemed to ask.

The palms of my hands still burned with the imprint of her fingernails. Of course I had seen. I had even felt. How could I not? Her world had been slowed down and magnified for my benefit. It was still hovering around me like a foreign landscape. I was aware of everything—the muffled heartbeat of the baby; the quiet heat of the pale yellow light cast by the suspended lightbulb; the tinny tick-tick-tick of metal pieces colliding to pass time inside the clock on Momma’s dresser; the slow gravity of the paint peeling in ugly patches from my parents’ metal bed frame; the quick rush of blood inside my own veins; the stoic worry hidden in Daddy’s heavy breath that brushed the back of my head each time he exhaled. I even felt the delicate joy of resting between the spasms of pain.

“Gene,” Momma said, turning her feverish gaze away from me.

Daddy grunted, released his grip on my shoulders, and moved toward Momma. I tumbled back to a heady reality, bloated with new knowledge.

I had seen enough. I wanted to get away and come back when Momma was no longer moving in and out of pain with animal beauty and the baby was swaddled in a soft blanket, peering out at me with vacant, dim eyes, humbled by its own helplessness.

The taxi came and I stood in the harsh light of the doorway and watched Momma, leaning on Daddy as they made their way along the river of light flowing from our house to the road. Daddy had one arm around her shoulders. His free hand held together the front edges of the fuzzy, dark-blue mohair sweater he had draped over her before they headed out of the house. She held a small, battered black suitcase in one hand.

Between the front porch and the taxi, another spasm overwhelmed Momma and my parents stopped in the middle of the yard. Momma dropped the suitcase and gripped Daddy’s arm with both hands. I imagined her fingernails digging into his arm, initiating him into the pain of what was happening in her now that the baby wanted to come into the world. Momma stood with her knees apart and slightly bent, her spine curved and taut like an Indian’s bow. “Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus …,” she begged.

Standing like that my parents became one object, a fountain centerpiece, connected as solidly as if they were metal pieces bound by a welder’s torch. Her hungry incantation was the water, blown upward from her throat and sent cascading back down, enclosing them in a world that excluded me.

I was seeing a hint of the unnamable thing that had drawn them together and compelled them to create—me, my brothers, this new baby. It surrounded them like a language only they knew. I wanted to run forward and put myself in the middle of their little world and disrupt it. They were too much of a mystery for me in those moments—as unreachable to me as the stars winking in the dark canopy of the night sky above them. That felt unbearable to me then. I wanted to see them as I always had—simple, transparent, ordinary grown-ups—not as mystery, not as a life-giving centerpiece out of which I had been carved and set forward in the world. I wanted them back the way they were before something made Momma decide I was big enough to see her in labor, big enough for her to ask me to take care of my brothers.

Momma’s pain stopped and she and Daddy retreated into their separate selves. They still moved as a unit though, leaning on each other, their steps matching, their heads bowed, into the taxi, and into an invisible world beyond the reach of our front porch light.