You mean sleep with them?
Yes.
Well, I said, pushing the swing so that it rocked a bit to the left, If sleeping with women is a crime it’s one for which the whole world is guilty.
What you mean? she asked, startled.
I mean everybody on earth has slept with a woman, even the two or three who started life in a petri dish.
She still looked puzzled.
You came here sleeping not only with a woman but inside one, I said.
Oh, she said.
It’s stupid to think sleeping with women is wrong, I said. What kind of jackass would have that opinion?
Yes, but you know what they mean, she said.
Oh yes, I said, SEX, the four-letter word. They can’t believe it can be enjoyed without a penis.
Trane, she said, using the nickname she herself gave me because I loved John Coltrane’s music so much when I was growing up.
I wish these hypocrites would get a life! I said. They’re dying to see women sleep with each other. It accounts for half of the pornography they buy.
Oh, she said, the Brothers don’t watch that stuff!
How do you know? I asked. It’s available in every hotel they’re likely to spend any time in. It’s all over the newsstands and on the street. How do you think they keep up the passion to rail against it? If they weren’t watching it and getting turned on by it, they wouldn’t just automatically think of women doin’ each other first thing in the morning. They might instead be thinking of cirrhosis of the liver or heart disease. Crime in the streets. Poverty in the hinterland. The way the weather is all screwed up. What’s really going on.
I’ve never watched it, she said. Smug.
No, I said, you’re afraid.
Why am I afraid, she asked, after a long moment during which the swing’s creaking was the only sound.
Oh, I said, so you admit it. I put my arm around her.
With you I seem to be able to admit anything, she said, with surprise. The more they try to make me not like you, the more lonely I feel.
That’s good, I said.
You’re a strange creature, though, she said.
Must be because of genes, I said.
Miss Mary was wearing a hat that appeared to support a complete crop of cherries. On top of her jet black wig. An ancient boater, the rest of it was made of straw and looked like something you’d only see in movies. Movies in which frivolous people flopped about on the dance floor. Or threw picnics in artificial wildernesses. A few local indigenous in the background looking impressed and eager to offer service. Beneath it, however, she wore a black Gap T-shirt, black pedal pushers and a pair of chartreuse espadrilles. Miss Mary had always had a sense of style and I commented on it now.
Wow, I said. If seventy looks like this, eighty must look fabulous.
Who said I’m seventy? she asked, looking at me over her aerospace-style glasses.
Now, Girl, said my mother, who was also wearing a hat I wouldn’t have believed she owned. A huge white thing made of something very deceased, with a big pink bow on the side. It reeked of mothballs.
Auntie Fanny’s hat outdid both my mother’s and Miss Mary’s. It was black and intensely dramatic, larger than theirs by inches, and with a leopard’s tail somehow coiling down the side.
I was wearing a baseball cap turned backward. Miss Mary tugged on one of my doo-doo braids.
Girl, when you going to do something about your hair. It looks like you platted it yourself.
I did, I said. Thinking how, until I went to school, I thought “platted” was a real word.
You’d better turn that thing around, said my mother.
Why? I asked, as we drove into the parking lot of the newest of Atlanta’s sleaze malls.
Someone might recognize you!
Yeah, I said, but probably not before I recognized them.
I noticed all three women had slid down in their seats. From outside the car it would seem I was chauffeuring three immense hats around the mall.
Okay, I said, turning off the motor after parking in front of the theater, we’re here.
Oh, God, said my mother.
Oh, stop it, said Miss Mary.
It’s probably not that bad, said Auntie Fanny.
Yeah, said my mother. How bad can it be? I’ve seen childbirth. She let out a sigh of relief.
What’s the name of this film? asked Miss Mary.
Deep Throat, I said.
Oh, said my mother, brightening. It’s not even about down there. She sat up straighter in her seat and undid her seat belt.
Though it was three in the afternoon there was a long line. All men. I wondered how long it would take them to notice.
Gawd, said my mother, immediately, we’re the only women here. She turned as if to get back into the car.
Miss Mary prodded her in the back with her purse. Keep stepping, she said.
Looking back at her I had to laugh. She was moving along like a very little girl, her eyes firmly closed. Led by my mother, whose back she was right up against.
Auntie Fanny had turned pale.
All these white men, she said. Makes it hard to breathe.
Yeah, said Miss Mary, get them suckers stirred up no telling what they might do.
I’m glad I let my hair go gray, said my mother, momentarily doffing her hat and using it as a fan.
That wouldn’t stop ’em, muttered Auntie Fanny.
Never stopped ’em before, said Miss Mary.
Women, please, I said, turning around and passing them their tickets. Slavery is over, segregation too, and besides, I said, noting the sagging bellies of the men and their wimpy pecs, you could probably outrun all of them.
What are those young black men doing here? asked my mother, pointing.
Three black teenagers had pulled up and now dipped and bobbed to the back of the line.
I grabbed her finger. Didn’t anybody ever teach you not to point? I said. It’s not polite.
They have popcorn! she said in amazement as we entered the theater, ignoring me and wandering toward the snack bar.
I don’t want to sit where anybody can see me, said Miss Mary. She had a gold tooth set in the side of her mouth. In the dimly lit theater it sparkled every time she spoke.
I want to sit near the door, said my mother. If it’s too rough I can just slip out. Did you leave the car door unlocked? I could just wait for you all.
Mother, please, I said.
Okay, okay, she said. I still don’t quite understand why the Good Lord sent me you, she grumbled.
To be sure you have a good seat, I said, steering them to seats near the back, by the exit.
Why way back here, complained Auntie Fanny. I’m too old to see way down there.
It’s a big screen, I said. You’ll see okay. Besides, anybody sitting behind you wouldn’t be able to see over all that hat.
Oh, she said, with petulance.
About halfway through the film I thought all three of my ladies had died. It was that quiet. Suddenly abashed at the thought of bringing them to see such a nightmarish film, I peered guiltily over at them.
Dropped jaws. Buckets of popcorn still untouched. Auntie Fanny’s overbuttered popcorn littering the floor.
The silence continued even after the film ended and we were back in the car.
Half an hour later and halfway back to their little town of eighteen hundred citizens: nine hundred “colored” and most of the rest white, I started to sing softly to myself. “Love and Happiness,” by Al Green.
Stop that, said my mother.
Why? I asked. Does it bother you?
How can you be singing?
Yeah, said Miss Mary. I feel like I been to a funeral.
This the kind of stuff people watch nowadays? asked Auntie Fanny, her hat in her lap.
More and worse, I said.
And that woman acting like it was so good, said Miss Mary.
Oh, I said, she says they beat her to make her act that way.
r />
What? said my mother.
The people who made the film, I said; she says the man who made her star in it, beat her to make her grin and bear it the way she does.
And she’s a white woman? she asked. Or she just look that way.
Italian, I said. White enough.
They all turn white once they get here, said Miss Mary.
What are those things called when you, you know what? asked my mother.
When you, you know what? I repeated softly.
You know, said Auntie Fanny.
Oh, I said. When you come.
Girl, hush. Said my mother.
Orgasm, I said, ignoring her. They’re called orgasms.
No colored person thought up that word, that’s for sure, said Auntie Fanny. Got a wormy sound to it. Gets slimy and hung up in your back teeth.
I laughed.
It’s a trip being trapped in somebody else’s language, isn’t it, I said.
It sure is, said Miss Mary. Like, white people talk about “vocation” when they mean job. She thought for a moment. I wonder if colored people ever had their own language, she said.
Sure thing, I said. Still do.
You know how much colored like to talk, said my mother. They’d have to.
There’s a language in West Africa called Wolof, I said. The word for yes is “wow.”
Sure ’nough? asked Auntie Fanny.
Yes, I said. I have a friend who speaks this language. Whenever I go to visit him I ask him to talk to me in Wolof for hours on end, even though “wow” is the only word I understand. Every time he says it I want to kiss him.
I thought you didn’t like mens, said Miss Mary.
Think again, I said. I just don’t go for the disrespect, I said.
You got that right, said my mom. Then looked out the window as if she’d said too much.
Come is better than orgasm, said Auntie Fanny, thoughtfully, and with conviction. Pussy is hotter than vagina. Though I guess you wouldn’t want to have your doctor talking about pussy while you up on the examining table.
Why Fanny Johnson, said my mother, shocked.
We was all young once, said Miss Mary, firmly.
And I did like myself a good time, said Auntie Fanny. But just straight fucking, thank you very much. I didn’t want nobody doing me like they done that poor thing in the film. I never wanted nothing going down my throat but food.
It’s weird, isn’t it? I offered.
Big ole nasty thing, said Auntie Fanny. And that man look like a retard.
You can’t come in your throat, said Miss Mary. I don’t care how what you call it, liberated, you get. They’d have to beat you to make you think that.
Exactly, I said.
Some women have a hard time coming no matter what you do.
Men, too, from the way that man next to us was wheezing and grunting.
Oh, that was so embarrassing, said my mother. I was glad he was white.
I was mortified, said Miss Mary.
I wanted to reach over, grab his hand and tell him to hush.
Not his hand. Said Auntie Fanny. The whole place start to have a funny smell.
Well they’re saying in the news that menfolks ain’t what they used to be, said my mother.
How’s that? asked Auntie Fanny.
They can’t, what do you call it … she said, trailing off.
Get it up, I said.
Girl, hush, she said.
Naw, and they can’t make babies that good anymore either, said Miss Mary.
Well if they can’t what do you …
Get it up … I said.
How they going to make any babies?
It’s the beef, said my mom.
Not that they need to make any more, Miss Mary said. When you think they gon’ notice this? All the time running around acting like all the world needs is more of them. You can tell they crazy.
I love babies myself, said my mother.
Okay, Mom, I said. Don’t start. I could have had babies if I wanted them. You don’t have to have a man to have a baby. You just have to have some sperm.
Girl, hush, she said.
What you going to take us to see next? asked my mom.
Three Girls a Dog and a Horse, I said, or Mary and Sue Discover Right Action. Maybe next Thursday evening and maybe on video.
Oh, a kiddie film with animals, said Miss Mary, optimistically.
My mother’s silence was stern.
I parked the car in front of our house.
Knowing Sister, here, said Miss Fanny, grimly, and poking the back of my neck, I wouldn’t count on it.
I don’t even want to see that, said my mother, if it has anything that could be nasty to animals in it.
What time? asked the other two.
What is it that you’d say is the most important thing about me? I asked my father.
He didn’t hesitate for a moment.
That you’re smart, he said.
Since we’d gone to Negril, Jamaica, together when I was experiencing my first or maybe second change of life, at the age of thirty-two, we seemed able to talk about anything.
On an impulse, and in what seemed to be a diversion from suicide, I’d called him and asked him to go with me.
He’d never gone anywhere before. I was amazed when he said: Well, send me a ticket.
We’d met at the airport in Montego Bay. He looked only mildly startled to be away from his house, and hugged me casually, as Southern fathers do when they greet their long-lost daughters in public.
What’s wrong? he’d asked, after we’d settled into our shack-like beach house.
I love this place already, I said. What an ocean, what a view.
I can’t swim, you know, he said.
I know, I said. That’s partly why we came here, you can walk out for over a mile and still be walking.
Feet on the bottom? he asked. You sure?
Yes, I said. That man I married and I used to come here all the time. He was shocked that I’d have a toke and drift out to sea.
It sure is a major blue, he said.
Major blues, I said. I’ve never seen more beautiful water.
My father excused himself to put on something more comfortable.
I rummaged in my beach bag for my skimpy bathing suit.
In minutes we stood ready to take the plunge.
Half an hour later, after swimming underwater and enjoying the colors of the fish, I surfaced near him and said:
I think I’m losing my mind.
Oh, he said, surprised to see me so near and jumping back in alarm.
Yes, I said. I don’t see how people stand to stay married to one person for the whole of their lives.
That’s not what you said when your mama and I got divorced.
It’s not, I said. But I didn’t know any better then. You’d been together the entire time I’d known you. I couldn’t imagine my own life without the assurance that the two of you were living in the same house.
Houses get small, he said.
I’m hip, I said.
After he returned from Negril, my father moved from the shed out back behind my mother’s house in town, and started living in a trailer on a plot of land he owned near the river. It wasn’t much of a river, but he dug out the section in front of his trailer each dry season so that he now had a large fishing hole just outside his door.
He’d let his hair grow long, rasta style, and it was silvery white, the color of moth wings. Around his dark brown face it looked stunning. He’d learned to enjoy the occasional toke as well, and had acquired a Rishi-like look of serenity in his eyes.
It’s such a relief not to see people every day, he said, inviting me to sit on the porch he’d attached to the trailer and partially hidden behind bamboo.
Way back here, I said, do you ever see them?
Not unless I invite them. Though one time some census takers woke me up to inquire whether I was counted.
I laughed. And you said?
I said I didn’t give a shit whether I was counted or not. After all, he said, I don’t go around counting myself.
He paused.
Imagine. Trying to count everybody on earth. Just so they can make stuff to sell to them.
Dad, I said, do you think I should keep fighting to keep Mom?
Save her from the Brotherhood? he asked. Yes, I said.
Let’s go see your uncle Brother, he said.
Uncle Brother was my father’s brother, and my uncle. So to me, he was Uncle Brother. He lived in the projects with his aged and nervous wife, Aunt BabySis.
Ho, BabySis, said my father when we arrived. How’s Brother?
Tolerable, said Aunt BabySis. He rested some last night. An hour, maybe.
We entered the tiny bedroom on tiptoe. Uncle Brother lay propped up in bed staring just above the huge color television screen on which Ann-Margret was spread out like a flesh mountain. Without his glasses I wondered if he could even tell she was a woman. She was trying to sing something and then a man came into the bar where she was and grabbed her by the arm. Her hair flopped into her eyes and the next minute somebody else was offering her a beer. Then a car driven by some black-haired people crashed through the window.
How you doin’? asked my father.
Uncle Brother looked at my father, squinted slowly, and seemed to fix him in his sights.
Ho, he said. Brother. Busy dyin’.
BabySis said you rested some last night, said my father.
The Brotherhood and them came by and prayed over me, he said.
Hum, huh. Said my dad.
They do that every evening, said Aunt BabySis. Sure as clockwork.
Seem to do you good? asked my dad.
There was no reply from Uncle.
I slip him some valerian, I do, from time to time, said Aunt BabySis, meekly, in a whisper.
Dad looked at me.
I wonder what they pray about? I said.
He chuckled as an amused look crossed his face. One I remembered occurring frequently during my years of growing up. You always ask just the right thing! he would say with delight. For a moment I felt an intense surge of pity for my father. No matter what I did, it seemed, he couldn’t help but like me. It shocked me to think his separation from my mother might have had something to do with me.
Uncle’s tired eyes swung slowly upward in alarm. I saw them widen with fear.
Now, now, said my father. You’ve known Hannah since she was a tot. She’s the same person. Just like your son.