“No, I want to. It’s no problem.”
“Yeah, but they’ll just show off if you’re here. It’ll be easier if I get them ready myself.” She swung the door open.
“Okay, then I’ll wait and stop by for you on my way out. How about six-thirty so we can get good seats?”
“Yeah, all right—six-thirty.” And she opened the door a little wider.
Kiswana was elated and she cooed at the baby, “Hear that, sweetie? You’re going to a play.” She stroked the child under the chin. “She’s a fine little thing. What’s her name?”
Her attentions to the baby bought her a few more minutes of Cora Lee’s time. “Sonya Marie,” she said and proudly hoisted the child up to be admired.
“She looks just like you.” Kiswana took the baby and tickled her nose with the end of one of her braids.
“It’s a shame you ain’t got none of your own. You’re good with kids.”
“I don’t have a husband, yet,” Kiswana answered automatically, watching the baby laugh.
“So, neither do I.” Cora shrugged her shoulders.
Kiswana looked up and added quickly, “Well, someday, maybe, but right now all I have is a studio.”
“Babies don’t take up much space. You just bring in a crib and a little chest and you’re all set,” Cora beamed.
“But babies grow up,” Kiswana said softly and handed the child back to Cora with a puzzled smile.
Cora Lee shut the door and sat back down in front of the television, but Maggie’s battle with the rare blood disease she’d contracted in Guatemala flickered by unnoticed. There was no longer any comfort in stroking the child on her lap. Kiswana’s perfume, lingering in the air mixed with the odor of stale food and old dust, left her unsettled and she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. After a few restless moments, she laid the baby on the couch and went over to the stack of albums she kept on a corner table. She slowly flipped through the expensive studio poses of her babies. Dorian, Brucie, Sammy, Maybelline—Dierdre and Daphane (how pleased she had been that year to have two come at once). Her babies—all her babies—stared back at her, petrified under the yellowing plastic. She must get Sonya’s pictures taken before it was too late.
But babies grow up
She looked at the hanging draperies, the broken furniture, the piles of litter in her living room. That girl probably thought that she was a bad mother. But she loved her babies! Her babies—her…She began to go through the albums again—Shakespeare, humph. Her class had gone to see Shakespeare when she was in junior high. She stared into Maybelline’s brown, infant eyes—We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep—Where had that come from? Had the teacher made them memorize that from the play, “The Temple,” or something it was called. She had loved school; she always went to school—not like them. Why didn’t her babies go to school? She shook her head confusedly. No, babies didn’t go to school. Sonya was her baby and she was too little for school. Sonya was never any trouble. Sonya…
But babies grow up
She slammed the album shut. That girl probably thought she didn’t want to take her children to that play. Why shouldn’t they go? It would be good for them. They needed things like Shakespeare and all that. They would do better in school and stop being so bad. They’d grow up to be like her sister and brother. Her brother had a good job in the post office and her sister lived in Linden Hills. She should have told that girl that—her sister was married to a man with his own business and a big house in Linden Hills. That would have shown her—coming in here with her fancy jeans and silk blouse, saying she was a bad mother. Yeah, she’d have her babies ready tomorrow.
Cora Lee went and turned off the television and decided to start dinner early after all.
“Why we gotta take a bath—Grandma’s coming over?”
“No, you’re going to a play.” Cora Lee was changing the water in the tub for the third shift of children.
“I don’t wanna go to no play,” Dorian protested.
“Yes, you do,” she said, stripping him and throwing him into the sudsy water. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay in that tub.” She went through the door to find Brucie.
“Dierdre, you can’t wear those socks—they got holes in them.”
“But I always wear these to school.”
“Well, you’re not wearing them like that tonight—give ’em to me!” She took the socks from the girl, dragged Brucie into the tub, and went in search of a needle and thread.
The children followed her bewildering behavior with freshly combed and brushed heads. They had never seen their mother so active. The feeling had begun after breakfast when she took their plates from the table, washed and stacked them, and swept the kitchen floor before moving into the living room to leave it dusted and in some semblance of order, and then on to the bedrooms, where she had even changed their sheets—there was something in the air. It felt like Christmas or a visit from their grandparents, but neither of these was happening, so they exchanged troubled glances and moved cautiously about with only token protests to the stranger who had awakened them that morning.
Cora sorted feverishly through their clothes—washing, pressing, and mending. She couldn’t believe they were in such a state. Trouser legs were ankle-high or frayed to distraction, dresses were ripped from the waist and unraveled at the hem, socks were missing entire toes or heels—when had all this happened? She patched and fussed, meshed and mated outfits until she was finally satisfied with the neatly buttoned bodies she assembled before her. She lined up the scoured faces, carefully parted hair, and oiled arms and legs on the couch, and forbid them to move.
When she opened the door for Kiswana, the girl was touched as she sensed the amount of effort that must have gone into the array of roughly patched trousers, ill-fitting shirts, and unevenly hemmed dresses that the woman proudly presented to her. She smiled warmly into Cora Lee’s eyes. “Well, I see we’re all set. Let’s go.” She took the two smallest hands in hers and they all trooped down the steps.
Cora flanked the group like a successful drill sergeant, and she made a point of personally addressing each neighbor that was standing on the stoop and along the outside railing, ignoring the openly surprised stares as they emerged from the building. Where could she be going with all them kids? The welfare office wasn’t open. She was greeted with the friendly caution that women hold toward unmarried women who repeatedly have children—since they aren’t having them by their own husbands, there is always the possibility they are having them by yours.
Mattie was coming up the block, wheeling a heavy shopping cart.
“Hi, Miss Mattie,” Cora called out warmly. She sincerely liked Mattie because unlike the others, Mattie never found the time to do jury duty on other people’s lives.
“Why, hello y’all. My don’t we look nice. Where you going?”
“To the park—for Shakespeare.” Cora emphasized the last word, extending her smile into a semicircle that covered the other listening ears.
“That’s right nice. This the new baby? Ain’t she pretty. You gonna have to stop this soon, Cora. You got a full load now,” Mattie chided lightly.
“I know, Miss Mattie,” Cora sighed. “But how you gonna stop?”
“Same way you started, child—only in reverse.” The three women laughed.
“Sammy, help Miss Mattie up the steps with that cart and then meet us at the end of the alley.” They were approaching the six-foot alley that lay between Mattie’s building and the wall on Brewster Place.
“Naw, I can manage. I don’t want him walking in that alley alone; it’s getting dark. C. C. Baker and all them low-lifes be hanging around there, smoking that dope. I done called the police on ’em a hundred times, but they won’t come for that.”
Mattie and Kiswana spoke a few minutes about the new tenants’ association getting the city to fence off the alley, and then the group moved on. They approached the park and then followed the hug
e red arrows painted under the green and black letters—A Midsummer Night’s Dream—toward the center. Cora had come to the park prepared. She had a leather strap folded up in her bag and she placed herself in the middle of the row with the children seated on both sides of her so no one would be beyond the reach of her arm. Kiswana sat on the end, holding Sonya. They weren’t going to cut up and embarrass her in front of these people. They would sit still and get this Shakespeare thing if she had to break their backs.
She looked around and didn’t recognize anyone from Brewster so the blacks here probably came from Linden Hills, and over half of the people filtering in were white. This must really be something if they were coming. She straightened up on the rough bench, poked Brucie and Dorian, who were sitting on either side of her, and threw invisible threats to the left and right at the others. There would be no fidgeting and jumping up—show these people that they were used to things like this. She uncurled Bruce’s collar and motioned to Daphane to close her legs and pull down her dress.
The evening light had turned into the color of faded navy blue blankets when the spotlights came on. Cora couldn’t understand what the actors were saying, but she had never heard black people use such fine-sounding words, and they really seemed to know what they were talking about—no one was forgetting the lines or anything. She looked to see if she would have to sneak her strap out of her bag, but the children were surprisingly still, except for Dorian, and she only had to jab him twice because when they changed the set for the forest scenes, even he was awed. That girl was right—it was simply beautiful. Huge papier-mache flora hung in varying shades of green splendor among sequin-dusted branches and rocks. The fairy people were dressed in gold and lavender gauze with satin trimming that glimmered under the colored spotlight. And the Lucite crowns worn on stage split the floodlights into a multitude of dancing, elongated diamonds.
At first Cora took her cues from the people around her and laughed when they did, but as the play gained momentum the evident slapstick quality in the situation drew its own humor. The fairy man had done something to the eyes of these people and everyone seemed to be chasing everyone else. First, that girl in brown liked that man and Cora laughed naturally as he hit and kicked her to keep her from following him because he was after the girl in white who was in love with someone else again. But after the fairy man messed with their eyes, the whole thing turned upside down and no one knew what was going on—not even the people in the play.
That fairy queen looked just like Maybelline. Maybelline could be doing this some day—standing on a stage, wearing pretty clothes, and saying fine things. That girl had probably gone to college for that. But Maybelline could go to college—she liked school.
“Mama,” Brucie whispered, “am I gonna look like that? Is that what a dumb-ass looks like when it grows up?”
The character, Bottom, was prancing on the stage, wearing an ass’s head.
Cora felt the guilt lining her mouth seep down to form a lump in her throat. “No, baby.” She stroked his head. “Mama won’t let you look like that.”
“But isn’t that man a dumb-ass, too? Don’t they look…”
“Shhh, we’ll talk about it later.”
The next scene was blurred in front of her. Maybelline used to like school—why had she stopped? The image of the torn library books and unanswered truant notices replaced the tears in her eyes as they quietly rolled down her face. School would be over in a few weeks. but all this truant nonsense had to stop. She would get up and walk them there personally if she had to—and summer school. How long had the teachers been saying that they needed summer school? And she would check homework—every night. And P.T.A. Sonya wouldn’t be little forever—she’d have no more excuses for missing those meetings in the evening. Junior high; high school; college—none of them stayed little forever. And then on to good jobs in insurance companies and the post office, even doctors or lawyers. Yes, that’s what would happen to her babies.
The play was approaching its last act, and all the people seemed to have thought they were sleeping. I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was…In the last scene the cast invited the audience to come up on stage and join them in the wedding dance that was played to rock music. The children wanted to jump up and join them, but Cora held them back. “No, no, next time!” she said, not wanting their clothes to be seen under the bright lights. The participants from the audience sat down crosslegged on the stage and the little fairy man pranced between them:
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumber’d here,
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream…
Cora applauded until her hands tingled, and felt a strange sense of emptiness now that it was over. Oh, if they would only do it again. She let the children jump around their seats and dance to the music that continued after the play was over. Cora went down the row to Kiswana and grabbed her hand.
“Thanks so much—it was wonderful.”
Kiswana was slightly taken aback by this burst of emotion from the woman. “I knew you’d like it, and see how good the kids were.”
“Oh, yes, it was great. I’m gonna bring them back again.”
“Well, if things work out, he’s planning to produce another one next year.”
“We’ll be here,” Cora said emphatically, taking the baby from Kiswana. “Was she too much?”
“No, she’s precious. Look, I’m not going back right now. I want to run and congratulate Abshu. You’ll be okay?”
“Sure, and please tell him I thought it was wonderful.”
“I will. See you later.”
Cora and her family moved home through the moist summer night, and she smiled as the children chattered and tried to imitate some of the antics they had seen.
“Mama,” Sammy pulled on her arm, “Shakespeare’s black?”
“Not yet,” she said softly, remembering she had beaten him for writing the rhymes on her bathroom walls.
The long walk had tired them so there were few protests about going to bed. No one questioned it when she sponged them down and put them each into bed with a kiss—this had been a night of wonders. Cora Lee took their clothes, folded them, and put them away.
She then went through her apartment, turning off the lights and breathing in hopeful echoes of order and peace that lay in the clean house. She entered her bedroom in the dark and the shadow, who had let himself in with his key, moved in the bed. He didn’t ask where they had been and she didn’t care to tell him. She went over and silently peeked in the crib at her sleeping daughter and let out a long sigh. Then she turned and firmly folded her evening like gold and lavender gauze deep within the creases of her dreams, and let her clothes drop to the floor.
THE TWO
At first they seemed like such nice girls. No one could remember exactly when they had moved into Brewster. It was earlier in the year before Ben was killed—of course, it had to be before Ben’s death. But no one remembered if it was in the winter or spring of that year that the two had come. People often came and went on Brewster Place like a restless night’s dream, moving in and out in the dark to avoid eviction notices or neighborhood bulletins about the dilapidated condition of their furnishings. So it wasn’t until the two were clocked leaving in the mornings and returning in the evenings at regular intervals that it was quietly absorbed that they now claimed Brewster as home. And Brewster waited, cautiously prepared to claim them, because you never knew about young women, and obviously single at that. But when no wild music or drunken friends careened out of the corner building on weekends, and especially, when no slightly eager husbands were encouraged to linger around that first-floor apartment and run errands for them, a suspended sigh of relief floated around the two when they dumped their garbage, did their shopping, and headed for the morning bus. br />
The women of Brewster had readily accepted the lighter, skinny one. There wasn’t much threat in her timid mincing walk and the slightly protruding teeth she seemed so eager to show everyone in her bell-like good mornings and evenings. Breaths were held a little longer in the direction of the short dark one—too pretty, and too much behind. And she insisted on wearing those thin Qiana dresses that the summer breeze molded against the maddening rhythm of the twenty pounds of rounded flesh that she swung steadily down the street. Through slitted eyes, the women watched their men watching her pass, knowing the bastards were praying for a wind. But since she seemed oblivious to whether these supplications went answered, their sighs settled around her shoulders too. Nice girls.
And so no one even cared to remember exactly when they had moved into Brewster Place, until the rumor started. It had first spread through the block like a sour odor that’s only faintly perceptible and easily ignored until it starts growing in strength from the dozen mouths it had been lying in, among clammy gums and scum-coated teeth. And then it was everywhere—lining the mouths and whitening the lips of everyone as they wrinkled up their noses at its pervading smell, unable to pinpoint the source or time of its initial arrival. Sophie could—she had been there.
It wasn’t that the rumor had actually begun with Sophie. A rumor needs no true parent. It only needs a willing carrier, and it found one in Sophie. She had been there—on one of those August evenings when the sun’s absence is a mockery because the heat leaves the air so heavy it presses the naked skin down on your body, to the point that a sheet becomes unbearable and sleep impossible. So most of Brewster was outside that night when the two had come in together, probably from one of those air-conditioned movies downtown, and had greeted the ones who were loitering around their building. And they had started up the steps when the skinny one tripped over a child’s ball and the darker one had grabbed her by the arm and around the waist to break her fall. “Careful, don’t wanna lose you now.” And the two of them had laughed into each other’s eyes and went into the building.