“Yes, Sister Saint Eustace.”
“Perhaps a brief change of scene.”
“I have friends in Halifax.”
Halifax County.
“Anthony, come here please.”
The matron at the Nova Scotia Home for Coloured Children waits with her hands folded as the little boy throws a last clutch of grain to the hens. This is Mercedes’ first trip to the mainland. She stands next to the matron. The little boy wears a red checkered shirt and brown corduroy pants with suspenders, sturdy boots. He looks healthy. The matron picks a little straw from his hair and says, “Anthony, this is Miss Piper.”
The little boy looks down, on the bashful side, and says, “… Hello.”
“Hello, Miss Piper,” prompts the matron.
“Hello, Miss Piper.”
Mercedes waits till he looks up. Then she begins: “‘Who made the world?’”
He hesitates, parts his lips, then, “‘God made the world.’”
“‘Who is God?’”
“‘God is the Creator of heaven and earth and of all things.’”
“‘What is man?’”
“‘Man is a creature composed of body and soul and made to the image and likeness of God.’”
“Why did God make you?”
“‘God made me to know Him to love Him and serve —’”
“‘— and to serve —’”
“‘— and to serve Him in this world and to be happy with Him for ever in heaven.’”
“‘What must we do to save our souls?’”
“‘To save our souls we must worship God by faith hope and charity that is we must believe in Him hope in Him and love Him with all our hearts.’”
“‘— heart.’”
“‘— heart.’”
Mercedes nods. “That is all. You may go, Anthony.”
The little boy watches as Mercedes turns to walk away with the matron, then he stops her with a question. “Are you the nice lady?”
Mercedes turns back, at a loss. The matron helps. “The nice lady who sent you here and makes sure you have clothes and food? Yes.”
Mercedes remains expressionless. Anthony says, “Thank you, Miss Piper.”
And scoots, tickled and shy, back to the chickens.
“Lovely farm,” says Mercedes to the matron.
“Come, I’ll show you the school section.”
Mercedes arranged for Anthony to be sent here before he was born. The first Nova Scotia Home for Coloured Children blew up along with half of Halifax in 1917, but they built another one out on the Preston Road. Mercedes did not expect Anthony to grow up as a charity child, even though this is a charity organization courtesy of the African United Baptist Association — some of the best women you’d ever want to meet on the Ladies’ Auxiliary. There are even music classes. Anthony is learning violin. Mercedes pays for him out of the Lourdes money, asking only that he be raised a Catholic. The Baptist ladies have been as good as their word, as Mercedes ascertained just now.
He is six years old. Mercedes can see there is no devil in him. He has his mother’s eyes.
Armistice Day
Of wicked and most cursèd things to speak I now commence.
Ye daughters and ye parents, all go, get you far from hence;
Or if ye minded be to hear my tale, believe me nought
In this behalf, nor think that such a thing was ever wrought.
OVID, METAMORPHOSES, BOOK X,
MYRRHA AND CINYRAS
James got a letter from “An Anonymous Well-Wisher”. He left that night. Three and a half days later, at 6:05 a.m. on November 11, 1918, he walked out of Grand Central Station. He walked all the way to where she was staying in Greenwich Village because he couldn’t get a cab. There were crowds.
He knocks but no one answers. The apartment door is unlocked, in fact slightly ajar when he arrives. He pushes it open and calls, but no one answers. He enters the little vestibule and listens. “Hello? … Anybody home?” He looks into the old-lady parlour, “Giles? … Kathleen?” Quiet as the grave. He sets down his small black case. Cocks his head to a sound. Giggling. Removes his hat and hangs it on the halltree. A shriek and muffled laughter from … across the parlour, down the hall — the smell of lavender — past the WC, treading softly. A closed door. He hovers. He places his ear to the panel of opaque glass.
It’s Kathleen making those sounds. Impossible to see through the wavy glass. Shadows. He closes a hand over the china knob — pink rosebuds in milk. Turns silently. Opens the width of a human eye. Sees.
Spray of red-gold hair upon the pillow. His daughter’s hands travelling over a black back, disappearing beneath the waistband of a pair of striped trousers moving between his daughter’s bare thighs, his daughter’s voice and not her voice, “Oh, oh-h, ohhh….”
A roar of blood behind his eyes and he’s in the room, yanks the bastard off her with one arm to belt him across the face with the other and fling him into the wall, his daughter leaps naked at his back because he is going to kill her lover with the flat of his foot but no, James would never kill a woman. Arms up to cover herself, bleeding mouth, sliding down the wall, Jesus. James tears the spread from the bed, descends upon the dazed girl, enveloping her as though she were in flames, slings her from the room, down the hall, out into the corridor where he flings her, a mummy-sack of bones. Then he locks the door and slides the safety chain into place.
In the bedroom his daughter is crying, pawing the floor for her clothes.
“Why, Kathleen?” He is not feeling angry.
She looks up, a blind choking mess. He puts a hand down to her, she takes it, legs shaking badly, onto her feet, clutching the floor-mat for cover.
“Why?” — the back of his hand — “Why?” — his speeding palm — “Why?” — closed fist.
Her head comes to rest facing forward, already puffing up. He looks at what he has done. He takes her in his arms. She is racked with shame, just wants some clothes, please —
“Shshsh,” he says, kissing her hair, her injured face. It’s his own fault — I should have never let her go far from home — an ecstasy beneath his hands, “It’s all right, my darling —”
“Don’t,” she says.
He can’t speak just now, he loves her too much — closer — oh so soft —
“Daddy —”
He will tell her after how much he loves her
— her palms against his shoulders, fighting to stay on her feet — Ohh my darling
— falling, fists against his back, enmeshed between his weight, the mushy bed, struggling only shakes the web, the sheet and all its threads conspire, she can no longer find her feet —
The iron taste of her mouth where he’s made it bleed, dreadful sorry, I’ll take you home again — “Be still,” he pleads.
“Stop it.”
I’ll never let anyone hurt you again
“No!”
never let anyone touch you
“NO!”
No one No one No. One. Will ever ever
She has stopped screaming.
Hurt you Ever
she is lying perfectly still now
Again!
He shudders. “Shshshsh. It’s all right now. Hush, my darling. It’s all right.”
James unhooks the safety chain and lets Giles in. “Hello, Giles.”
“Who …? Excuse me —”
“I’m sorry, it’s James.”
“James!”
He takes her net bag of groceries and helps her off with her coat.
“James, why I haven’t seen you since —” A little flustered. “Was I —? Am I forgetting?”
“No, no, I’m here unannounced — thought I’d look in, see how the world-famous singer’s making out.” He smiles and blinks twice in quick succession.
“Does Kathleen know you’re here?” Suddenly alarmed lest —
“Yes, oh yes, we’ve already had a visit,” says James.
Giles starts down the hall, “Kathleen, dear —”
>
James stops her. “She’s having a bit of a nap — not feeling too spry.”
“Oh.” Giles hesitates. “Oh dear. Was — did you meet Rose?”
“Yes, oh yes.”
Giles strip-searches his face. Then says, “I’ll just look in on the girl.”
“She’s sleeping, really, look, I’ve made myself useful.” There’s a pot of tea and two cups set out in the tiny dining-room.
“Oh. Well. That’s lovely, James, thank you….”
On their way to the table, Giles chats politely, “You know I just popped out to the corner to get some — where did I put my —?”
James holds up the net bag, “Right here.”
“Oh good, thank you, James, yes I just popped out for a jiffy but I was delayed, you know, caught up in the celebration, swept quite out of my way.”
“Oh?”
“Oh yes. Haven’t you heard?”
James gives her a sociably blank look, pours tea, his hand shaking only slightly. Giles breaks into a big papery smile. “Oh James, the war is over. This morning at eleven o’clock. Oh wait till I tell Kathleen it’s over. It’s all over.”
Rose fought her way through the victory crowds and holed up in Central Park till dark, ticker tape in her hair, confetti drying on her bloody face.
Around nine, she walks into the apartment on 135th, past Jeanne, who’s reading on the couch, something in French. Jeanne actually sits up.
“What happened to you?”
“I got beat up.”
Rising, “Who did this thing?” Summoning her upper-crust command, “Answer me, Rose.”
Rose splashes water on her face at the kitchen sink. “Kathleen’s father.”
Jeanne swallows the smallest of canaries. Then slides back into her sweet drawl, “Don’t worry, honey. Momma will make it all better.”
Rose watches as Jeanne heats water on the stove. She sits still while Jeanne dabs at her fat crusty lip. “Poor baby.”
“Don’t you want to know why, Mother?”
“Oh honey, you don’t have to talk right now.”
Jeanne doesn’t comment on the bloodstained bedspread or the trousers peaking out below its fringe. She picks up the phone and cancels tonight’s visitor. She lights candles and lays the table for “a prodigal feast”. She postpones her injection — “The pain is a little better tonight.”
Jeanne sits across from Rose. And eats. She talks with well-bred animation of Rose’s brilliant future. It is as though she had never left Long Island — she can almost feel the phantom servant at her right elbow poised with his crystal decanter.
“You’ll be more celebrated than Portia Washington Pittman, darling.”
Rose does not reply but Jeanne seems not to notice as she enumerates the triumphs that lie ahead: Rose will perform for royalty as did Elizabeth Taylor Greenfield, the Black Swan. She will perform for the president as did Sissieretta Jones, the Black Patti who came so close to singing at the Met. She will play with the greatest orchestras of Europe, and Carnegie Hall will be on its knees, begging. “After all, Rosie, someone’s got to be first and it may as well be you.” Jeanne gives two pats to her lips with her linen serviette. “And Mother will be so proud of you.” She reaches out to squeeze her daughter’s hand. “Not that I’m not proud already, I am, Rosie, you’re my life, you’re all I have left and I love you.” Jeanne gives Rose her most wistful look across the candles. “Really I do, dear.”
“What’s the occasion, Mother?”
Jeanne looks politely baffled. But she’s in too good a mood to dissemble. She is feeling girlish tonight. Positively flirtatious. She shoots Rose a cupid’s-bow smile and leans forward in the candle-light.
“Listen to me, my love. You have more talent in your little finger than twenty Kathleen Pipers, and one day you’ll thank your pauvre petite maman.”
“For what?”
Jeanne winks and lights a cigarette, inhaling with a sly eye on Rose, shaking the match well after the flame has gone out. An Anonymous Well-Wisher.
Rose begins a mental list of things to do and starts with item one, “Who was my father?”
A pained smile from Jeanne — an unfortunate remark from her dinner guest. “Rose, dear heart, you always did love to hear the story —”
“I know the story, I want the truth.”
Jeanne taps her cigarette, arches her brows slightly and sighs, really this is a little tiresome.
“Who was he?”
“He was Alfred Lacroix, darling, as you perfectly well know.”
“And what did he do?”
“He was a preacher, a man of the cloth and a credit to his race.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s in heaven, my treasure.”
The catechism finished, Rose leaves the table. It’s a long list. There is no time to lose.
“Kathleen has gone home, Rose.”
“When’s she coming back?”
“Her father didn’t say.”
“What did she say?”
Giles looks tired. “She didn’t say anything.”
Rose gets up. “I think I left some clothes here.”
“By all means dear, have a look.”
“Did he hurt her?”
Giles looks away. “I don’t know what he did. She wouldn’t speak.”
Rose pauses, momentarily forgetting her errand.
“Rose. Do you need a place to stay?”
“Thank you Giles. I’ll be okay.”
Rose stands in front of the bathroom mirror at home and cuts her hair to the scalp. She changes out of a dress for the last time, wakes up her mother and says, “I’m going now.”
Jeanne takes a while to come out of a bad dream that starts when she opens her eyes. Rose doesn’t wait, just conveys information, “I’ll let you know wherever I’m playing. I’ll send you money every week whether I have it or not. When you die, I’ll come back and live here.”
The road starts at Club Mecca. Sweet Jessie Hogan loves spaghetti and meatballs and beer and sweet young things who tear up the keyboard and don’t know when to stop. A hot blues streak, the twenties.
Until boom goes bust and Rose starts playing her own stuff. Doc Rose. And his trio.
“a garden inclosed is my sister … a spring
shut up, a fountain sealed”
THE SONG OF SONGS
When Frances dies it’s safe for Mercedes to put Anthony’s picture on the piano. Framed in filigreed silver, he stands proudly at attention in the uniform and broad trooper’s hat of the Boy Scouts of the Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church. He is still a Catholic.
Mercedes contemplates the cover of the record album in her lap. Frances amassed quite a collection. Ralph Luvovitz sent her one every Christmas and whenever he visited his mother, always the same request. Frances died early this morning. The kitchen counters are still heaped with her baking.
Mercedes never was a big eater and Frances less so. Through the thirties, people came to the kitchen door and carted it away — big stews, pork and beans by the bucket, molasses cookies, oatmeal cookies, date squares, Nellie’s Muffins, Johnny-cake, rhubarb upside-down cake, jellyrolls, pies, blueberry grunt, yards of shortbread, hundreds of tea biscuits. Nowadays there aren’t as many people going hungry but Frances still cooks for an army — Mercedes has had to organize pick-ups by the hospital, the rectory, the convent. Young single miners have been taking care of the rest, wolfing down huge meals, hardly noticing the old girl at the oven with her three cigarettes on the go and her glass of Irish. Frances looked very old at the last, though she took care to henna her hair from time to time.
For twenty years Frances listened to her records. Cooked. Smoked. Drank. Watched the street. Slept on the attic floor. Walked the shore. She no longer walked the Shore Road because it fell into the sea — they’ve replaced it with a paved one that runs a sensible distance from the water, but it’s just not the same. She read newspapers and saved them all. Scared children without knowing
. Led home cats. Tried never to change her clothes. Spoke little. And then yesterday she up and said, “Don’t you ever wonder where Lily is?”
And when Mercedes didn’t reply, Frances got up from the sofa in the front room — “Frances, what do you need, dear, I’ll get it.” But Frances made her way to the piano bench and bent down, which made her cough — “Frances, dear, use your hanky” — opened it and took out her newest long-playing record album. She handed it to Mercedes and lay back down on the sofa, exhausted.
Mercedes pushed a blotched tabby off Frances’s chest and looked daggers at a cross-eyed Siamese who never shut up — “Shut up,” said Mercedes. And glanced down at the album cover: Doc Rose Trio, Live in Paris: Wise Child. A handsome black man, the angles of his face reprised by a fedora wound round with a gleaming emerald band.
“You might want to look her up someday, Mercedes, you never know.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“So you can die in peace.”
Mercedes hates it when Frances says things like that. She’s usually so good except when she’s drunk and then Mercedes just lets her alone, shutting the door on whatever room it is so she doesn’t have to hear what Frances is saying to herself.
“My conscience is quite clear, Frances.”
“Daddy died in peace.”
Mercedes gets up to leave and close the door —
“I’m not drunk, Mercedes. I quit drinking.”
“Since when?”
“This morning.”
“Oh Frances, here, have one, I’ll join you, perk up the appetite.”
“I’ve quit. I want to die sober.”
Mercedes turns stony. “You’re not going to die.”
In the schoolyard Mercedes is no longer “old leather-lips” — there is not enough affection to inspire a nickname any more. Just fear. Everyone fears Mercedes, except Frances. If Mercedes could have terrified Frances into going to a sanatorium, Frances would be well now. Frances could have gone to the best sanatorium money could buy, in the States, in Switzerland, but Frances refused. And Mercedes has had to watch. And now it is too late — damn you, Frances, how is that any different than suicide?
“Don’t be ridiculous, Frances, you’re not going to die.”