“This book got a whole page dedicated to ‘sorry.’ Not really good enough, is it?”
She stands and stretches out her hand to me like she want me to shake it.
“I’m a different woman now, Naomi. I want you to know that. I’m different because I understand her. I forgive her. Forgive myself. And I know what I got to do for Johnny. For you.”
She reaches her hand out to me again. “You’re gonna need somewhere to have this baby. Come back to the house with me. It’s safe. Plenty room for all us. Let me help you bring this baby into the world.”
“And Albert?”
“This ain’t no place to have a baby, Naomi. All this soot. Full of smoke. That can’t be good for a new baby to breathe. Its lungs. Might get a breathing condition. So even if you don’t want to come live with me for yourself, maybe you need to for the baby. What does Albert know about the labor of babies?”
“He needs my help.”
“He’s already healed and needs to let you go. Sometimes you have to tell your friends that this is where I stop on this road with you. And if they really care about you, they’ll tell you thank you for coming this far and let that be the end of it.”
“Then let this be the end of it for us,” I say. “I won’t leave without Albert.”
“Then bring him,” she say. “If Albert chooses, he can make a room for himself in the attic so he’ll be close to you but still have his own space.” She pauses, then laughs, “I guess y’all love birds now?”
I don’t answer.
“You’ll have to earn your keep,” she say. “Serve in the saloon or something ’til the baby comes. Can’t let people think I’m soft.”
“Will I get my own room?”
“You can have Bernadette’s.”
“Can I go out when I please?”
“Just don’t tell nobody I said so.”
42 / 1869, Tallassee, Alabama
I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S worse: living in fear or dying. Before two weeks ago when George met Rachel, I would’ve said fear and only dying if the dying didn’t last long. But now, I just say death.
I’ve been waiting and watching over Squiggy and Rachel, hoping for George to redeem hisself for better ’cause I have no choice. If Bessie’s consequence is true, I cain’t square in my mind not being here to see my grandchildren grow. To see Josey, a mother like me, grow. I can’t end myself after all we been through. They need me. Even this way. ’Cause sometimes, just being there for somebody, wordless and present, is enough.
A few days ago, I think Sissy understood that, too.
She found a body floating dead in the stream. She’d gone down to fetch a bucket of muddied water ’cause dirty water is good enough for the crops, not good enough for drinking. The drought make it hard on everybody. That, and the war, end of war, and the new war west. New freedom. So bodies have been leaving Tallassee for years. And not everybody make it out alive. But something about this dead body spooked Sissy.
Her screaming is what brought us all out.
Josey went to her right away, leaving her children in the house but I got there first. Saw the body shifting in place on top of a bed of loose rock and water. It looked like a log at first. The body. But the smell was worser than the shit of two sick stomachs.
About three days the body had been there, I’d guess. It belonged to an old woman who’d been left behind near a worn path. Sissy kneeled, leaned over it, gasped when she saw the woman’s bloated face. It looked just like Sissy. Coulda been her twin. No further than a cousin in relation. Sisters, maybe. This woman could’ve been her long lost.
“Let’s bury her,” Sissy said to Josey with tears in her eyes. It was those tears that surprised me more than the body. She said, “Shouldn’t nobody die with nobody to bury ’em. And I don’t want to die that way, neither.”
Since Sissy found the body, she’s been helpful to Josey all week. Kind even. “Can I help you with the babies?” she’ll ask. And, “I’ll get that for you,” she’ll say. I swear it frightened Josey the first time. And today, Sissy’s been downright confessional.
“I was wrong about you,” she said. “And I ain’t shamed to say it now. We need each other. Rely on each other. Even if all that means is waking up in the morning knowing somebody familiar is near.”
“You ain’t got to worry about dying, Miss Sissy. Or being alone. We’re family.”
SISSY’S RUSTLING AROUND in Jackson’s old cupboard now. They keep their linens in there now. Sissy hired the sharecroppers’ son months ago to come and put a lock on that cupboard door. She said it was to keep the babies from falling down that hole. But only she has the key to the room. It’s hung around her neck on a string so Josey got to ask every time she need a new cloth to wash with.
Sissy comes out of the cupboard holding a wood chest they keep winter shawls in. She sets it down in the middle of the room and opens it. Inside are full tomatoes, still on a vine, plump carrots, runner beans, and potatoes the size of two fists. I don’t know where she got all this from. Josey’s eyes widened.
“I don’t know why I kept it from you,” Sissy say. She leaves her box next to Josey and shuffles over to the rocker, sits in it, and pushes into short swings. She closes her eyes like she praying.
Josey sorts through the box, puts one onion and one potato on the cutting board. Ties her apron around her waist before she takes her knife to dice them. “The world is changing, Miss Sissy,” Josey say. “Even for us. And look at all this goodness. This is what matters.”
“Perspective,” Sissy say. “It’s God’s gift to the dying. And when I saw that dead woman, I think I got hers. I used to have people,” she say. “Was married once. Can you believe that? Had good friends. Ms. Annie was one. My best. We used to play together when I was just older than Rachel.”
“You two was friends?” Josey ask.
“Annie treated me better than any of the other slaves. . always. We got into so much mischief together, found trouble wherever it be. If mudslinging was part of any game, we’d play it first. Her Momma used to come out and say, ‘Annabelle Brown! You don’t have no place in the mud with her.’ A negro and a white. Unnatural how close we was. But nobody could keep us apart. Did a spit handshake to prove we was loyal. Best friends forever.
“Before we knew it, we was women. Sixteen and it was time for us to marry. Annie asked her momma if I could be her help to get her dressed and ready for courting. But Lord knows all we did was gossip and drink her daddy’s stole liquor.
“We both married at the same time, was both trying to get pregnant at the same time, too. Wanted our babies to be best friends like we was. And even when my Paul passed on, I still had hopes for Annie. We were still gon’ have a baby.
“But Annie wasn’t getting pregnant. Months to years, then that knock met our door that night — the evening the night man, Bobby Lee, came to our door.
“You were her prize. She wanted to do everything for you herself. Y’all ate at the table together, she taught you to write at two years old. You was already sewing beads on dresses by then. She’d praise you more than she shoulda, gave you more than she shoulda. Spared the rod even when you was breaking things, knocking things over, couldn’t keep a room clean if you was in it. You were the reason Annie pushed me away. You left me with nothing except Annie’s trust.
“It’s why she listened when I tol’ her what that night man had done to her. I was the one that saved her from kissing that black baby on the mouth. From the ridicule of this world. From them good people that despise nigger-lovers more than sin itself. But it wasn’t them that Annie ended up loathing. It was me. I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at me after I accused you of being a negro. Eventually, she put me out like garbage.