My Great Aunt Kitty loves predicting on men. Aunt Kitty’s about big as a minute and her snap-crackedy voice makes me taste pepper sauce. Aunt Kitty wears small gold rings and bright red finger and toenail polish. She smokes cheroots in a cloisonne holder and chases the flavor with buttermints. Folks say that when Aunt Kitty was 13, she looked 23. At 70, Aunt Kitty looked 50. Even now, at 82, Aunt Kitty keeps more company than I do.
Now that I think on it, the weekend I showed her Stan’s picture, Aunt Kitty pointed out a stranger and said, “Now, baby, that there one, see how he uses his hands. Oily looking, hunh? And look at how he walks with that little skip? Yeah, I know. You can’t hardly notice. But it’s there. And see how his shoulders set? Uh- hunh, looks nice enough, don’t he? But men like him, umph! . . . they needs a woman who I’ll kick they ass right regular to get them out of their deafness. Not that they can’t hear a siren or the numbers man whispering they done hit. But men like that, they dull as stone when it comes to making a woman feel good. They can sour her like brine. Make her thirsty. Have her craving sweets.” Aunt Kitty drew on her cheroot, spurted smoke from her mouth and said, “So, womens, if they going to mess with men like that, they need a whopping-type nature to tenderize him. Ain’t I right, Babette? Or she needs to find someone who’s already gentle and kind.”
That was two summers ago, and all I could do was nod ’cause I sure didn’t like getting or giving whoppings. Momma’s forsythia switches and the look of that little boy with his eye puffed up and his arms black and blue, that cured me a long time ago.
Of course, this soft attitude doesn’t help my current situation, which is why I’m sitting here over grape soda pop, two frosted doughnuts, half a pecan pie and Rocky Road ice cream. Because me, Babette Newton, I’m figuring how to get Stan to bring me back my $20 and my rug shampooer. Stan promised to see me Tuesday night. When he didn’t come, soon as I got to work the next morning, I called his house. Stan whispered like I knew he would, saying, “This isn’t a good time, Babette. You know Marsha’s here.”
“Well what about my $20?”
“Things didn’t go like I figured, and Marsha’s getting suspicious. We’ve got to be careful Saturday for sure, Babette. In the meantime, I need another 20. Can I fly by after lunch?”
“No.”
“Come on, Babette.”
Stan’s 5-8. Colored like Dijon mustard. Dreamy, gray-green eyes with mile-long lashes. Pudgy. Tickly mustache. Thinning hair. Tends to stutter and blink. But at least Stan’s employed. He sells cars at Gus’ Gotta Go Car Lot. We like Southern fried steaks and Rolling Rock beer. We play checkers, hug up with old Ramsey Lewis tunes and massage each other while watching adult videos. Leastways, that’s how things were in the beginning. Still, when Stan kisses my breasts and says they’re the prettiest he’s ever seen, I overlook how only having him on odd afternoons and evenings and being careful about where we’re seen is not OK. I sit here, savor the ice cream and try forgetting that while I’m waiting on Stan’s divorce, which he was getting when I met him, maybe I should see others.
While I’m wondering who else I might date, my doorbell rings. Clarence the UPS driver, who’s got a wife and two kids, he delivers a package wrapped in yellow flowery paper. Inside a shoebox, there’s a taped-shut white candy tin printed with rainbow-colored raindrops. The sunny card reads,
My dearest Babette,
Don’t open this can til after I die, which will likely be soon.
Love,
Your Great Aunt Kitty
Aunt Kitty ain’t got a hysterical or a self-pitying hair on her strawberry-blond head. She lives in a part-brick and part-wood house with a screened-in porch and Sweet William growing all around. A gravel driveway curves past a big magnolia tree and lilac bushes. A bit beyond the concrete block garage are woods where we kids played. That’s where ferns and bushes made great hiding places and the moss felt like carpet. That’s where sparkles of sky danced through pine needles and oak and where I heard that little boy crying.
I reach for the phone, but before I call I hear again the ice clinking in Aunt Kitty’s minted tea and stories about Sylvannah who sang like an angel and cussed like a teamster and threw boiling laundry water on her husband when he came home hung over and stinking of another woman. So that ended that.
Aunt Kitty would always say, “I should have helped my mother more. It was back- and heartbreaking work raising six kids and keeping a roof over our heads alone, especially me and your granddaddy. But that’s how I was, young and stupid. ‘Cause when you love someone like I loved Sylvannah, especially when you don’t realize how much you love them ’til you can’t make things right, then all you got’s regret. And I don’t like regretting nothing.”
Sooner or later, Aunt Kitty would add, “You know, Babette, sometimes when you hold your head like that, I see Sylvannah plain as day. Out of all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren and whatall, you look most like her. But you don’t sing. You’re as timid as a mouse. And you’d sooner eat Fels Naptha soap than say gotdamn. Ain’t I right?”
I nod and see the brown and white picture of my great grandmother. There’ s a ribbon through Sylvannah’s lace collar. Soft curls circle her heart-shaped face. She’s got features more like an Indian’s, no smile and large, real alert but sad- looking eyes. Holding small flowers, Sylvannah sits in a fancy, wood chair with brocade cushions. Now that I’m 34, which looks like the same age as Sylvannah in the picture, I figure I do look like her. And always when Aunt Kitty talked about Sylvannah, she’d sing,
Who dat say chicken in dis her crowd ?
Speak the word, and speak it loud.
Blame de land, let the white folk rule it,
‘Cause all I’m lookin’ for’s a pullet.
Who dat say chicken in this crowd ?
At Newton weddings and funerals — as the day’s heat stewed off and lanterns glowed — Aunt Kitty would tell how she sang and danced in the juke joints along Benson Creek. Out in the woods where our folks couldn’t hear, we kids sang too,
I’s Big Nigger Bill
From Boot Hill
I ain’t never worked
and won’t never will
I’m big as a tree
I sting like a bee
And I’ll love more womens
than you’ll ever see.
Later, Aunt Kitty traveled with the old Theatre Owners Booking Association that she called Tough on Black Asses. Aunt Kitty even went to Memphis, St. Louis and Kansas City where she worked with folks like Duke Ellington and Count Basie. When rock ‘n’ roll took hold, Aunt Kitty went back to Mississippi and started frying hair.
Two weeks after Aunt Kitty’s package came, while I’m mixing a double batch of chocolate chip cookies, Momma calls and says that Aunt Kitty’s gone on. I just pour some lemonade and remember the night Aunt Kitty gathered us nieces around her bed. The grownups were out visiting. She swore us to secrecy, ’cause if we told our folks, well, my mother for sure wouldn’t leave me there alone again. The fan blew Aunt Kitty’s long, lacy curtains. Crickets chirped outside as she schooled us on powders, perfumes, prophylactics, pretty underwear and how to do right by our female selves. As I open Aunt Kitty’s candy tin, I think — in fact, I know — I should have paid closer attention.
Out pours a buttermints fragrance, dried flowers, a cassette tape and a letter. First, I just look at Aunt Kitty’s childlike handwriting. Then I read,
Dear Niece Babette,
I want you to have Sweetness. Now,
I also know that you can’t drive, so
I had Floyd make arrangements
to get you and the car back to where
you live. About time you learned
to drive anyway. This tape is
for the ride. So listen to it then.
God bless. Good luck. And take
good care of Sweetness or I’ll have
a few words for you when we meet up.
Love always,
Your Great Aunt Kitty
I was in 3rd grade when Aunt Kitty got Sweetness. I think the main man she saw back then, his name was Colfax. Anyway, he named the car, teasing Aunt Kitty ’cause if it got a bump, a nick, a ding or made the slightest unusual sound, she took that ’65 Thunderbird right in for fixing. I call Stan at Gus’ Gotta Go, and he asks what the car’s like. Then Stan starts worrying me about how quick the car can get here. I figure to be home inside a week. And maybe by then, Stan’ll for sure get me back my $40 and my rug shampooer.
The ride to Mississippi with my mother, my brother and cousin Luella driving straight through takes 24 hours. The day after the funeral, cousin Floyd tells me Aunt Kitty’s car is over at Boll Weevil’s station and whenever I’m ready, Boll Weevil will drive me home. While I’m wondering what on Earth kind of name is Boll Weevil, Floyd’s wife nudges him and grins. So I ask if everything’s all right, and they look like two piano keyboards when they say, “Yep.”
Rain falls through the night, making the morning air, the magnolia tree, the driveway gravel, the lilac bushes by the porch and the pink and red Sweet William all sparkly. I beg Momma, J.B. and then Luella to ride north with me, and they just shake their heads and say, “Naw, girl. We’ll see you in Fairfield.” And then, right after breakfast, just like that, they left.
Around 9:30, Sweetness arrives. Looking down through Aunt Kitty’s lace curtains with sunbeams pinging my face, I try peering through the magnolia leaves and sky reflected on the windshield. When Boll Weevil opens the door, I see a tall man wearing aviator sunglasses and a red baseball cap. His shirt stretches across a broad chest and muscular arms.
I had seen that man at the funeral and the dinner afterwards. He looked so handsome. He had talked with everyone except me. We never even got close. I noticed that no one was with him, and wondered . . .
In Aunt Kitty’s oval mirror, I check out my dress. I fluff my hair and put on more Hot Coral lipstick and Real Teal eyeshadow. When I get to the landing, Boll Weevil says,”Morning, Ma’am.” His quiet, easy voice fills the room. He takes my suitcase like it’s weightless, walking like nothing’s worth rushing for. His color is like whole wheat bread. His jaw’s strong with a nice, full mouth. His short hair curls at his neck, and his face looks like it’s chiseled from rock. Setting my suitcase by the door, Boll Weevil stands there rod straight. Maybe it’s his Marine posture, or how he made my luggage look light, or the meticulous way he moves, or his direct but hidden eyes . . . anyway the hairs stiffen on my neck.
“Aw, Boll Weevil, you know I was going to get cousin Babette’s suitcase. You trying to make me look bad?”
Boll Weevil settles into an at-ease stance, looks at papers he’s carrying, smiles and says, “You don’t need my he’p fo that, Floyd. You do just fine by yo’sef.”
“And I was just going to ask Rose to fix you some breakfast.”
“Sounds mighty good,” Boll Weevil shifts the toothpick in his mouth, “but maybe Miss Babette and I better be going. I done checked Sweetness from top to bottom. Everathang’s fine, and these arrangements you done made, the maps and all, they look real good so, Miss Babette, you just let me know when you’re ready.”
Sort of snippy, I say, “Well, I’d like some breakfast. Then I guess I’ll just call my boyfriend and let him know I’m on my way.”
Sweetness is turquoise with white trim, dashboard and seats. She’s got wire hubcabs and whitewall tires. The car’s polished and scrubbed and looks new. Just before Boll Weevil starts Sweetness, he looks at me and says, “Your aunt set a mighty store by you, Miss Babette. I’m honored to be carrying you and your car up north, and I’ll be glad to help you learn to drive.” The engine purrs, and I’m ready to say, “My boyfriend is an excellent driver. He’ll teach me.” But the words flake in my throat. I shake my head and cough. I can’t think why, but I remember this man like I do the smell of pine and the feel of mossy dirt.
Sweetness rocks as she rolls. The engine pulls like a giant, humming heart. I put Aunt Kitty’ s cassette in the tape player and explain that she wanted me to hear it. Boll Weevil touches his breast pocket and says, “Miss Newton give me one, too. I’m supposed to play it later on. And she left a present for you.”
I cross my arms and listen to Milli Vanilli’s “Take It as It Comes,” a song about a guy breaking up with his girlfriend. I sing along until Boll Weevil says, “Ain’ that those phony, pretty boys that somebody else actually sung their stuff?”
“Yeah. So. It still sounds good.”
Boll Weevil shrugs, and as tree shadows sweep over the windshield, I mentally calculate the miles and hours until I get home. Next I sing, “. . . easy come, easy go . . . ,” to Jermaine Jackson’s “Don’t Take It Personal,” and then I get lost in Marvin Gaye’s “Ain’t That Peculiar.” That’s when Boll Weevil asks, “What do you think of people like that?”
“Like what?”
“People that do others any old way, like all that counts is what they want. People who know someone has such strong feelings for them, they’ll even believe lies.” Boll Weevil rubs his nose and says, “But then maybe just liking the tune’s good ‘nough.”
“Maybe it is.”
We ride on. After a while, I say, “Well . . . I think you got to take what you can get when you can get it, and hope for the best.”
“Hope?”
I place one hand delicately over my chest, close my eyes and say, “You don’t understand English?”
“Well, down here, hope and a quarter’ll git you a pack a gum. Leastways the quarter will. Maybe things’re different up north.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m just making conversation, Ma’am.”
My eyes slit down. “What did Aunt Kitty tell you about me?”
“Waaaall, Miss Newton, she tol’ me you’re right precious to her on account of you’re a smart young lady making a good way for yourself and on account of you remind her of her mother.”
“My Aunt Kitty actually talked about her mother to you?”
“Yes’m. Miss Newton, she loved her mother, and she loved you. Most folks, if they love someone, they talks ’bout ’em.” Boll Weevil turns into a restaurant parking lot, pulls those papers from the sun visor, squints at the sign, then says, “Yep.” Boll Weevil opens my door.
We get a table looking out over a pond with cattails and lily pads. He orders broiled sole, a salad and iced tea. I get a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, fried onion rings, a strawberry milkshake and watch, annoyed, as Boll Weevil squares his napkin, probably perfectly, on his lap.
I say, “You’re awful particular, aren’t you?”
“Ma’am?”
“I mean, you must like everything just so. Being so perfect must be hard on the folks around you.”
“Something you want me to change, Miss Babette?”
I shrug, chew an onion ring and ask, “Are you married?”
“No Ma’am.”
I think to myself, “Well if you weren’t so stiff, so rigid, so –“
Boll Weevil says, “Your boyfriend must be a fine gentleman.”
I square my shoulders and say, “His name’s Stan. Stan Rankin. He’s a car salesman. One of the best. He’s going to have his own dealership one day.”
“Sounds right impressive. Reckon you’ll get married.”
I stir my milkshake and mumble, “Someday. What about you?”
“It’ll be a while,” Boll Weevil looks at the pond, “before I try again.”
I listen to fences and trees whizzing by and radio stations crackling on and off as we pass different towns. I actually like all the scenery. Around 5 o’clock, Boll Weevil stops at the Pine Grove Inn. Since we’re only in Georgia, I reluctantly acknowledge that, maybe, he shouldn’t have to drive straight home. Besides, Pine Grove is beautiful. My bed sits high with bedposts taller than I am. Thinking how Stan would enjoy this place, and picturing us rolling in that big, fluffy mattress, I freshen up, buy a romance novel and am glad that I don’t see Boll Weevil anywhere.
After breakfast, I find him wiping down Sweetness. He’s wearing that red cap, a tailored, short-sleeved shirt, khaki slacks and the aviator sunglasses. Boll Weevil’s arm muscles flex as his big hands move, and he doesn’t smile. He just says, “Mo’ning, Miss Babette. Nice day.”
“Yeah.” I set my suitcase beside the trunk. “By the way, wouldn’t it be quicker if we took the interstates?”
Boll Weevil looks around like he’s testing the wind, then says, “Reckon it would, Miss Babette. I’m just following Floyd’s directions. They’re what Miss Newton told him to do.” Boll Weevil spreads a map on Sweetness’ hood and traces some yellow highlighting.
“And have you got any idea why we’re going this way?”
Boll Weevil shrugs his big shoulders. “Maybe Miss Newton thought you’d like to see some country. It’s nice land.” Boll Weevil puts my bag in the trunk and then opens my door, standing like a soldier. “Course, maybe you already seen this on your family trips.”
“And why do you figure she asked you to drive?”
“Probably ’cause I always took care a Sweetness.”
“That so?”
“Yes’m.” Boll Weevil gets in and continues, “Always been good with my hands. Can fix just about anything. Miss Newton done got dozens of offers to sell this car. Ain’t hardly none of this here model left that’s this clean and road worthy. You just watch. Betcha we get five offers to sell if we get one by the time we reach Pennsylvanee. But Miss Newton, she wouldn’t part with Sweetness. When Miss Newton couldn’t drive Sweetness no more, she had me take her out every now and again. So you got yourself a prime automobile here, Miss Babette.”
Later, when we crest a small hill, I see our road curving like silver through the bright brown, yellow and green countryside. After a few miles, Boll Weevil stops at a fruit stand and buys himself strawberries. He leaves $10 for me and, after washing his fruit at a water pump, he looks out over a field of seedlings. An eagle circles the distant woods. I buy butter cookies and orange soda. The dust-flecked wind plays with our clothes as I ask, “So, what’s your real name?”
Boll Weevil smiles, and the smile softens his face as he takes off his sunglasses and says, “Emerson. Emerson Culpepper.”
When Emerson gazes down at me, his eyes are like the Benson Creek sky when some of us kids lay out on blankets and sleeping bags and counted stars way past midnight. I get two odd sensations. One is of crying, that soft choking kind that makes hiccoughs. And the child is so far away, so deep in my memory, I barely hear his sobbing. But here and now, Boll Weevil’s eyes are like the woods. So close I get . . . I feel . . . I fan myself and say, “It’s getting hot out here, isn’t it?”
Boll Weevil shifts awkwardly. He says, “When I was little, I remember you visiting Miss Newton. At times, there’d be whole bunches a Newtons coming from up north and out west. But you wouldn’t remember me, Miss Babette. Wasn’t much of me to notice. Then Daddy moved us to Texas.”
I look at Boll Weevil hard. From long-gone wounds, there’s a nick on his left cheek and above and below his right eye. His face is relaxed. His eyes are cool and restful. As Boll Weevil walks toward Sweetness, I stare at my hands wondering why I expect to see flowers.
That evening, at the Sky View Resort, I find Boll Weevil on a patio with white wrought-iron tables under flowery um-brellas. There are volleyball nets, tennis courts and an outdoor swimming pool. Far off, I see the interstate. And through the tinted windows behind us, there’s another pool, a whirlpool and an exercise room.
“Looks like the place to be for healthy people.
“Yes Ma’am.”
I glance at Boll Weevil’s drink, clear with cracked ice and lemon wedge. I order a daiquiri, nod toward the weight room and ask if he works out often. Boll Weevil smiles and answers, “Every day.” When I ask how long before we get to Pennsylvania, Boll Weevil swirls his drink and answers, “We’ll stop again in West Virginia. Then, it’s just a short drive. You’ll be home by noon, day after tomorrow. Hope that’s OK.”
My daiquiri comes. I take a big drink and answer, “Well, I got to get the car home, and you can’t drive straight through.” I drink again.
“Is that a problem?”
I squint at Boll Weevil, look at his glass and ask what he’s drinking.
“It’s just water, Miss Babette. With the lemon, that makes it a toner. Real re-freshing.”
“You don’t drink, hunh?”
“No Ma’am.”
“Is it too much like being like the rest of us?”
Boll Weevil’s mouth tightens.
“Bet all you’ve ever had is milk and juice. Try some.” I nudge my glass. “It’s sweet. It might relax you.”
“No thank you, Ma’am.”
“Scared? Afraid you might loosen up or something?”
I push my glass until it bumps Boll Weevil’s hand. I watch him watch the condensation run down and tremble on his fingertips. After a moment, Boll Weevil lifts the glass and studies the sun’s glow captured inside. His hand quivers. Sweat gleams on his forehead. Boll Weevil swallows hard. His grip tightens. After that, everything looks like slow motion as he squeezes until the glass shatters.
Boll Weevil sets his napkin over the broken glass and spreading beverage. His eyes are like pitch as he sags back in his chair. Then, ignoring the small drops of blood spotting the tablecloth and pavement, Boll Weevil rises. He says, “Excuse me, Ma’am. I’m going to get this cleaned up.”
The sun is nearly set when I come down from my room. I walk toward the pool and find Boll Weevil. As I approach, his eyes run over my face. His own is like stone. But Boll Weevil’s eyes are not the same pitch black as when he sagged back into his chair. Boll Weevil’s much more relaxed than when he ignored the small drops of blood spotting the tablecloth and pavement and said, “Excuse me, Ma’am. I’m going to get this cleaned up.”
When I reach the table, he says, “Miss Babette, I don’t mind. Matter of fact, it’d be a favor from you. You see, your aunt, she did me some good turns. I owe her, and I’d like to leave Pennsylvania knowing that you can drive Sweetness. If you’ve got the time, I saw a big shopping center near here. It’s not finished yet so the lots are empty. We’ve got light for a while. I can show you.”
When we get to the Sky View Mall, I grab the big steering wheel. Boll Weevil smooths his left hand along the dashboard, a gesture that speaks of respect for the car and pride. Then he says, “Well, go on, Miss Babette. Turn the key.” Trying to calm my stomach, I hold my breath until Sweetness shudders to life. The steering wheel jumps in my hands, and then Sweetness idles smoothly. Boll Weevil nods at the gear stick. “Step on the brake, and put her in drive. Then you can just let Sweetness move on her own until you’re ready to make her go.”
Sweetness prowls slowly like a big cat. When, barefoot, I lightly press the accelerator, goosebumps shoot all over. I’m actually controlling this heavy, beautiful car. Me stopping and starting. Me turning Sweetness around. Me.
When I steer Sweetness back to where we started, the sky is dark blue with a few stars. The wind has a grassy smell and kisses my face as Boll Weevil says, “I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you, Miss Babette. It wasn’t my intent. Maybe hearing a little about me will help, though I don’t want to burden you. You see, my wife’s name was Dolly. She was a little taller than you, and a little thinner. And my boy, Nathan, he was smart as anyone you ever saw. He was . . . .” When Boll Weevil stares at his rough upturned hands and then out the window, I see the cuts. Wings flutter through the dusk. Distant car lights sing through the winds testing the new buildings. Boll Weevil’s quiet words join these night sounds.
“Four years ago, we were on our way to St. Paul’s Hospital. Dolly was about to have our second child. A drunk driver crossed the road and hit us. They died. I didn’t handle it so good. So know this, Miss Babette. ‘Cause in a small town like Benson Creek, there ain’t no secrets. There’s no AA. No NA neither. Just me, and my ghosts and things got real ugly. I ought to be dead now. That’s surely what I wanted. There was some, like Floyd and Rose, who didn’t turn their backs. But the only reason I’m here is ’cause your aunt, she wouldn’t . . . she refused to leave me be.”
Riding back to Sky View, I concentrate on trees merging in and out of the night and the road stripes threading Sweetness’ headlights. I try making AA and NA equal Boll Weevil. It doesn’t add up. We say nothing until we walk onto the patio. Then Boll Weevil, tall, almost tower-like, says, “I’m going to sit out here for a while, Miss Babette. You did real good driving Sweetness. She’s your car for sure. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I see me and some cousins playing hide-and-seek in the woods. I’m off by myself and hear crying in these bushes. When I crawl in, there’s a little boy. One eye is puffed and black and blue, and when he rubs his face, I see welts on his arms. I ask what he’s doing here, and he pulls up some wildflowers and pushes them to me. He’s a couple years younger, and since I can’t think what else to do, I kiss his cheek. We hear the other kids getting close, and he runs away leaving the sounds of ferns swishing and footsteps and the midnight color of his eyes.
I get up early and find Emerson in the lobby. He walks up to me and says, “Well, reckon you must be a twin. Sure can’t be Miss Babette up this soon.”
I say, “I figured I could use some exercise.”
We walk up a dirt road and watch a flock of birds wheel across the unbroken blue. I gulp the sweet cool air in gallons. After half-jogging a few hundred yards, we spook deer on the wooded hillside. Startled, I press into Emerson, then step away mumbling, “Just don’t see many real deer.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“And please don’t call me Ma’am.”
“Yes Ma–,”
“Just call me Babette.”
We walk until we look out over elm, some oak, lots of long-needled pine and other trees on a landscape gently rolling to low hills. Two robins hop across the grass. Blue jays play in the trees. I take a deep breath and say, “You were wrong yesterday, sort of. I do remember you.”
In the gym, I get on the walking ma-chine, on the rowing machine, on the bicycle and on the step climber. Everywhere, whether in direct sight or reflected in the mirrors, I peek at Emerson. He’s gorgeous! Finally, Emerson comes over and asks, “Ready for breakfast?”
I pat my hair and pant, “I, I don’t think so. I’m not hungry.”
“A good workout’ll do that. Come on. Let’s try the whirlpool. Then, maybe have some fruit or juice. Your appetite’ll be back soon enough. So, if you get something healthful in you now, it’ll stave off the cravings later.”
Sipping orange juice on the patio, I tell Emerson how great, how alive, I feel. He smiles and says, “If peoples starts out every day like that . . . well, even just with the walking, their whole insides, including their thinking, it just gets better.”
I ask, “Is that what helped you?”
“Me?” Emerson’s eyebrows knit.
I pick at my grapefruit and say, “Last night, you mentioned Alcoholics Anonymous and I guess the other was for narcotics.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
I hear the patio umbrellas flapping and me kicking myself until Emerson says, “I wasn’t hurt in the accident, but Dolly didn’t have a mark on her neither. I looked for Nathan. And by then, there’s folks around. They won’t let me through so I push ’em aside and find my son and know that all the life that’s left in him is just his breathing. And I’m hoping, no matter what, I’m praying, just let him keep on breathing. When Nathan stopped, I didn’t feel nothing. Not for months. And the fact that I didn’t feel nothing, that was bad enough. But then the numbness wore off, like Novocain at the dentist, and I could hear my family talking like before the crash, and I could see their eyes as that car comes. Over and over, seems like the glass never stops breaking. I feel it. The WHAM! Like all my bones is splintered and put back the same instant. I smell it. I taste it. It’s not so often now.”
I whisper, “You did the best you could.”
Emerson looks at me like I’m lying. Then he says, “I been in bodybuilding since I was in high school. Took second place in the state Mr. USA and was fixing to compete in the nationals. If I didn’t do nothing else, I did my weights. But there was a hurting in me that I didn’t know what to do with. It would rise up and grab me like claws and teeth. Only time I got away was when I got drunk and high. And as time went by, I needed to get drunker and higher more and quicker. And that’s funny ’cause the man who killed my family, his drunkenness disgusted me. So I’ll never forget the day Miss Newton, she had Floyd bring Sweetness over. Didn’t even have my job no more. No tools. No nothing. And there was Sweetness outside. I tol’ Floyd to take the car back. And Floyd told me I’d have to take Sweetness back to Miss Newton my own damn self. So I figure if I just left that car sit, Miss Newton, she’d get tired of waiting on me. You see, she never let Sweetness sit out.
“Well, after a few days, Miss Newton herself come down there. She’s banging on my door with her cane. And I hear that peppery voice of hers, ’cause she knew I was in there even though I wouldn’t answer. And she said that I better get my black ass out there and fix on Sweetness. I heard her leaving, then she come back and says that I better give Sweetness a damn good waxing, too, since I done let her car sit out so long. And I better be at her house by 5 ’cause she wasn’t holding supper not one minute longer.”
Emerson rubs his forehead with the back of his thick-veined arm and says, “Miss Babette, I done fell back often enough to know what’s waiting after the first drink. I might look strong, but it doesn’t take much. So if Miss Newton lived forever, I’d never be able to repay her. We got close when I was small. My daddy, when he’d get drunk, he had this real bad temper. Sometimes, he’d beat my momma. That’s why she left. Sometimes, Daddy, he’d tear into me. Later, he’d beat up on my stepmomma, Miss Judy. About that time, your aunt was seeing Amos Colfax, Miss Judy’s father. Miss Newton, she said she ain’t got no sympathy for a full grown woman who’d take whoppings like that, but you got to help a chile so she’d take me sometimes. My daddy, he didn’t want to let me go, but seem like no one in Benson Creek — and as tiny as she was — answered back to Miss Newton.”
Emerson smiles and says, “Bet you think my life’s been one hell thang after another.”
“No,” I say, “I can tell you’ve been happy. It shows.”
“I worked my way back to Benson Creek when I was 16. Married Dolly two years later. We were together eight years.”
I fiddle with my napkin and ask, “Is there someone special now?”
“As long as I got me a heart, Miss Babette, I’m looking for the chance.”
The first two days after we left Benson Creek, I could lose myself staring at the countryside and towns. This morning, I’m so aware of Emerson (the way he clears his throat before he says something, how he holds the steering wheel, his clothing when he moves), I’m jumpy.
Emerson says, “Just like I told you, we already done got three offers to buy Sweetness. I took their phone numbers in case you want to sell. Reckon your boy-friend can get you a real good deal.”
“I guess.”
“How long you two been together?”
I remember meeting Stan at the Foxy Lady Happy Hour. He’d stepped on my toe and then bought me a drink. I an-swer, “Three years.”
“He ever ask you to marry him?”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s keeping y’all together?”
“Habit, I guess. And we like some of the same things, like sports.”
“Yeah? What kind?”
“We like the Bulls, and — “
“You’re kidding. Not the Trailblazers?”
“No way!”
“Well, wait just a minute — “
I demand to know how come, if the Trailblazers were so good, their Clyde Drexler and Terry Porter couldn’t stop Michael Jordan. And I’m amazed that anyone thinks Randall Cunningham’s knee injury kept the Eagles from beating the Redskins and then winning the Super Bowl. Finally, Emerson says, “Miss Babette . . . Babette, I surely do enjoy this . . . discussion,” he touches my hand, “but maybe we ought to find something else to talk about.”
When we get into Sweetness, the day has gone gray. Emerson plays Aunt Kitty’s tape. The first song is Ramsey Lewis’ “Slipping Into Darkness,” one of my favorites. I sink down into the seats, close my eyes and let Sweetness rock me while Stan’s face enjoying this song fades into barbecue smoke and summer leaves and voices wavering in a misty woodland.
Anita Baker sings “Fairy Tales” and Emerson says, “I really love listening to her, but I like `You Bring Me Joy’ and `Sweet Love’ better.”
I ask Emerson, “What do you think of people like that?”
“Like what?”
“People like in `Fairy Tales’ who don’t do like they should.”
Ahead, really dark clouds plaster gloomy shadows across the hills, and the wind whistles. Rain plops against the windshield as Emerson answers, “Well, with this here `Fairy Tales’ song, it ain’ ’bout somebody not doing what they should. It’s about expectations that ain’t good for nobody. Loving is something two people best be real about, and being real ain’ always about being happy.” Emerson shrugs. “Ain’ no man’s gonna swim no stormy seas to prove his love. No woman would either. But there’s things that’s lots of times is about as hard –things that ain’t spectacular and showy, may not even get noticed at all — things maybe you don’t really want to do, but you do ’cause you love that person.”
Emerson fights to keep Sweetness on a road that has vanished beyond the sheeting rain. When the road rises and cuts through a small hill, Emerson stops and, as the storm pounds overhead, Luther Vandross croons “If This World Were Mine.” I listen to Emerson’s breathing. I look at his face. He blinks, clears his throat and bends to turn off the song. As I reach to stop Emerson, our hands are too careful . . . our lips, too gentle. It takes an 18-wheeler blasting past before we realize that the storm’s gone.
At the Chestnut Lodge, Emerson checks us in and lets me into my room. When I ask where he’s staying, Emerson nods next door, hands me my key, and for a while, we just touch.
Years ago, when a local television station went off each night, it ran an inspirational segment with a jet pilot flying into skies filled with tall, shining clouds. One line — about slipping the surly bonds of earth — stays with me. And on through that night with Emerson, that’s how I feel . . . free and open as the world and bright as cloud tops. Being with Emerson is like being the ocean. It’s like prayer. It’s like parades with xylophones ringing and horns blaring. When Emerson and I finally check out, I’m surprised the Chestnut Lodge doesn’t charge for another day.
The West Virginia roads wind and dip into Pennsylvania, swinging and dancing through the laurel and maple-covered valleys and hills. I lean back, filled with the whole sky. I hum and rest my hand on Emerson’s thigh. Then the words bubble out of me. Soft, I’m singing,
Who dat say chicken in dis here crowd?
Speak the word, and speak it loud.
Emerson sings along and says that my voice is beautiful. I tell him that’s something no one ever said before. I tell him that’s one of the reasons Aunt Kitty was disappointed in me. And he says that there wasn’t nothing about me that disappointed Miss Newton. And I say that, well, actually I let Aunt Kitty down ’cause I wouldn’t cuss. Emerson smiles and says, “She actually tol’ you that?” He stops the car and opens the trunk. Handing me a package wrapped in yellow flowery paper, Emerson says, “I think this is how Miss Newton really thought of you.”
The note says,
My Dear Niece Babette,
Better late than never.
Love,
Your Great Aunt Kitty
Nothing stops the tears as I stare at Sylvannah’s brown and white picture. For some reason, and maybe it’s the sunlight, her eyes don’t look so sad. Emerson hands me a big handkerchief, and when I can talk again, all I can think to ask is, “How come they called you Boll Weevil?”
Emerson answers, “So I wouldn’t feel like a pest, your aunt, she named me after one. Besides, I was kinda small.”
I say, “Emerson . . . Emerson, Emerson-Emerson.” I shut my eyes and feel cool and damp and soft like a forest floor and smell woodland flowers and hear ferns swishing. I kiss Emerson again.
Nothing’s changed in Fairfield, but everything looks different. I see Stan walking from the barber shop at Meadow Street and wonder why I never noticed that little hitch in his stride. Stan eyes Emerson, then checks his watch, kisses me and says, “Baby, I sure missed ya.” Stan stares up at Emerson again and says, “I want to thank you , fella, for bringing my Babette back safe and sound. M’name’s Stan Rankin.” He hands Emerson a Gotto Go business card and adds, “If you need wheels, I make the deals.”
Emerson smiles, standing tall and straight, and says, “I’ll keep that in mind. And you can just call me Boll Weevil.”
“Boll Weevil!” Stan busts out laughing. “You Southern fried folks are something.” Stan whistles. As he runs his hand along Sweetness’ side panel, I expect to see grease stains. “Well, Boll Weevil, ain’t this car a beaut? Babette, baby, be glad you can’t drive, ’cause there’s good money to be made here.” Stan opens the door as though he’s about to get into the driver’s seat and from somewhere, all of a sudden, like a big soda pop burp that I can’t stop, I blurt out loud enough to rattle windows, “Stan! Get your goddamn hands off my car!”
