14
Mama's Magic
“Take a lot more than you To get rid of me.”
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t's Tuesday afternoon and Mama's been pissed at me for over a week now. But, she's going to have to get over it. I need her help to get through tomorrow's performance and the rest of the week. When I get home, she's in the kitchen making tea cakes, and I'm just in time to help her cut the dough.
Walking into the dingy yellow kitchen, I see Mama's in her white housedress, pink, tattered house slippers and a white scarf, covering her freshly cornrowed hair tied neatly in a bun at the base of her neck. I like when Mama wears her hair like me. She taught me how to cornrow my hair when I was about five years old. Mama says braiding your hair into different patterns sends different messages to your Ori, or your divine path. She alternates between this hairstyle and the French Twist, opting for cornrows when her spirit needs healing.
This is the first time she's been able to cook since our plumbing disaster. When I got home Sunday evening, the bathroom was back to normal and Mama's mood has been lightening ever since. After Netta does her hair she looks radiant, as if she's released all of the anger she's been holding in. Thank God, because I sure could use a hug.
“Hey, baby,” she says, putting down the sifter full of cinnamon and sugar to give me a hug. She smells like sweet buttermilk and flour. By the looks of it, she's been baking all afternoon. It's almost six in the evening and she's on her fifth dozen.
“Who are you baking for this time?” I ask, walking over to the sink to wash my hands before taking my customary seat at the kitchen table.
“For you,” she says, picking up the sifter and shaking the contents over the flattened dough. “I thought it might help with your dancing tomorrow,” she says, cutting the glazed dough into small squares. “You and your friends will need the carbs, no?” she says, placing the cakes onto the parchment paper in four neat rows.
“I'm not going to say no to tea cakes and I'm sure they'll appreciate them, too. Thank you,” I say, taking one from the fresh pile cooling on the table and stuffing the entire thing into my mouth. My friends will be lucky if they each get one. These are my favorite treats.
“Did you find a date for the dance?” Mama says, making small talk while the last batch bakes. It smells so good in here, completely covering the scent of broken toilets and funky men. Mama's good at making it feel warm and clean again. She heals through this kitchen.
“Yes. Myself,” I say, on my second cake. “I'm going stag.” I'm officially done trying to get a date for the dance. Sometimes a girl has to stroll by herself. And now is definitely one of those times. I made my decision after Jeremy and I talked about it last time. I don't need anymore drama where dudes are concerned. And, the only way I can see that happening is if I don't have a date.
“That's my girl,” Mama says, cracking a smile before taking the hot sheet of golden sweets out of the oven. Damn, she's good. If Jeremy had one of Mama's cookies, he'd probably do anything she asked him too.
“And, how's Raheem?” Mama asks, taking me back to Friday's session. He's so sure of himself, it's frightening. And, I'm not so sure if I'm completely over Raheem, which isn't a good thing if I'm pledging myself to another man.
“Raheem's fine,” I say, taking the Ziploc bags out of the cupboard to store the tea cakes that have cooled.
“We'd better put these in our room so nobody gets to them,” Mama says, taking a couple of bags and filling them, careful not to smash a single cake. “You know how your Daddy likes his treats,” she says, leading the way to her bedroom. I don't think she's talking about tea cakes. Daddy's more of a cobbler man. Mama's always salty about Daddy's girlfriends.
“Mama, how come Williams women can't seem to keep a man?” I blurt out. She's clearing off her desk on her side of the room, making room for the cakes. We usually store anything we want to save in here. The boys don't dare come into Mama's room.
“Is that one of the lessons you've written down from Maman's history?” she asks before sitting down on her bed. She takes an old church fan with her and Daddy's picture on it and cools her glistening forehead while laying back on her pillows. “If so, it needs rephrasing,” she says, searching for her herbs and water glass with her eyes. I follow her gaze to the nightstand, anticipating my need to get up and prepare her evening concoction.
“Rephrasing how?” I ask, retrieving the glass and pouch before heading to the kitchen.
“You said it as if we don't have the power. Girl, haven't you learned anything about our legacy?” she asks as I walk back into the room with her thick drink.
“Well, actually, I have been reading a lot about Maman's relationship with Jon Paul,” I say, taking a seat on my bed and reaching to grab my spirit notebook from the side of the bed where I hide all my books, magazines, letters, and other things someone might mistake for scratch paper or a coaster. “And, it seems she cheated on him with his best friend, Pierre, a White man,” I say, recalling last night's reading.
“Yes, go on,” Mama says, swallowing the last of her herbs and settling back in bed, ready to be impressed.
“So, how come Maman cheated on Jon Paul? Why can't we ever be happy with one man?” I ask, realizing we are all walking on the same path of heartbreak after all.
“Did you read anything about how controlling Jon Paul was with Maman or how she was the one the community came to with their problems, including Jon Paul's people?” Mama says, sitting up to look at me. “Jayd, it's not that we can't keep men. It's that men can't keep us,” she says, smiling seductively. It's the same look my mother had on her face when she was talking to Jeremy the other night. The flirt before the sting. “You say it as if we want the men who want us, and that's not always the case.”
“Well, I can testify to that,” I say becoming a little too comfortable. I always have to remember Mama's my elder, not my homegirl, no matter how cool she can be. “Well, then why didn't Maman leave before Jon Paul killed her? Why didn't she just be with Pierre?” I ask, knowing life isn't always that simple.
“Oh, girl, you talk like you don't know what the hell love is,” she says, becoming impatient with my line of questioning. “Besides, times were different then. And, Maman was very tied to the community. She couldn't just leave them behind. So, she stayed and continued to work as his wife. Because that's what marriage is without love: free labor,” she says, massaging her hands with oil.
“I thought they were in love,” I say, reviewing my notes. “It was a deep, pervasive, intoxicating love, from what I jotted down,” I say, reading my quotes.
“Yes, at first. But, as soon as he became jealous of her power and started that possessive crap, love went out the door.” Mama takes the spirit book from the nightstand where I left it after last night's reading and turns to Maman's story. “Did you notice the bath she gave herself when she was dealing with Pierre?” Mama says, alluding to my problem with Raheem.
“Mama, I've got bigger problems,” I say, needing to ask her about Nellie's situation. “There's a picture going around of Nellie getting undressed in the girl's locker room and I think Jeremy's ex is behind it.” Mama looks up from the big book, horrified.
“Poor girl,” Mama says, looking worried for Nellie. “And she probably doesn't know who her enemies are, does she?” Mama says, as if she was at school when it happened.
“Not at all. She wants so badly to win this crown and be in the popular crowd she won't believe me. But, I know that wench did it,” I say, wishing I'd slapped Tania when I had the chance.
“And, so, what are you going to do?” Mama says, looking at me as if to say I'm on my own with this one.
“Well, I was kind of hoping you could help me in that department,” I say, getting up to sit on the edge of her bed and hugging her legs. I used to sleep like this when I had nightmares as a little girl. As soon as I'd touch Mama's legs, all the bad thoughts would leave my head. But now, it's not that easy.
“Oh, Jayd. I've told you time and time again, everything you need to solve all of your problems is already within you. Call on your powers, child, and your path will be cleared.” She gently runs her freshly painted nails through my hair. “If Nellie won't listen to you, pray that she gets the message another way. Remember, it's not about your victory, but hers. Take yourself out of the equation and you will have a greater perspective of the situation.”
“But, I'm too close to it,” I say. “How can I separate myself when I'm all up in the mix? It's my friends, my club, my man's ex, and I'm the campaign manager. Where am I going?” I say as Mama shoos me off her legs, swinging them to the side of her bed where her altar rests.
The altar is the family shrine for the women in the household. The five-tiered white shelf is filled with pictures of our deity, Oshune, Mama's ancestors, pictures of me and my mother, my auntie and uncles, and many other family and friends. There's food, candles, and other things covering each tier, making it appear cluttered to the outside eye. A visitor probably wouldn't even know it was in here, protected under a white veil in the corner of the room, between her bed and the window. There's hardly any space for Mama to kneel before it. But she does, at least twice a day.
“Pray to the ancestors. My legacy is yours to call on.” She takes a picture of Maman from the altar and hands it to me, telling me to concentrate on the eyes of the ancient face.
“The women in my father's family loved Maman. They served her as they would a queen, and so did the women in the community. When Maman died, they took me in, caring for me and showing me what a mother's love can do and how a spirit transcends physical death. Maman was there. She was always there. She never left, just came back in different ways through different people.”
“If you grew up with your father's people, how did you learn about your mother's lineage?” I ask, slightly confused.
“Like I said, Jayd. Maman is a queen, and the stories of queens are recorded,” she says, tapping her journal. “All of the women in our legacy have journals. This is where your power lies, child. In your words. Have you been recording your dreams?” she asks. I look at her ashamed, shaking my head no.
“Jayd, girl. When are you going to listen to me? You know how to deal with your problems, but won't take the time to do it. Get your notebook and write down Maman's bath prescription for direction and knowledge of following the right path,” she says, pointing to the page with a picture of Maman in the bathtub, her long hair piled on top of her head, soaking to her neck. The sketch is lifelike, with the image almost jumping from the page. Whoever wrote Maman's story did so with love and meticulous affection.
“Who drew the pictures?” I ask as I record the list of candles, herbs, oils, and other ingredients for the bath.
“Your great-aunts, my father's sisters. Although they were older than Maman, they also became her first goddaughters. It was these women who kept Maman's spirit alive and taught me to do the same,” she says, looking from the book to my journal, making sure I'm recording properly.
“I got it,” I say, tucking my journal into my chest, not allowing her to see.
“Yes, you do, Jayd. Now, go and put it to good use. Help your friend, Jayd. Poor, lost Nellie,” Mama says, turning on
Jeopardy
and pointing me out of her room. “If anyone ever needed Oshune's mercy, it's that girl. Now, go ask her for it.” Mama's right, this isn't about me and Tania or me and Nigel and Raheem or me and anyone else. It's about Nellie. Now, if I could just get her to see that before she's completely blindsided again.
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After praying and bathing the rest of my evening away, one plan is revealed to me. If I could get Nellie to perform with us, being Seth's girl on the last hook of Jay-Z's song, then it might win her back some respect. And, I don't care if she has stage fright. The best thing to do in these types of situations is to sway the crowd. And, that's just what I intend for us to do.
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“Hey, Mickey, have you seen Nellie this morning?” I ask as I pass Mickey at her locker on the way to mine. I can't believe it's already the Wednesday before homecoming, but I can't worry about that right now. I need to put up these tea cakes and my outfit for the performance today and get my Spanish and English book out. Jeremy dropped me off at the front door today so I could get to my locker a few minutes early. Nellie's not returning any of my messages and I really want her to come to the last rehearsal.
“No, and I don't want to. She's gone too far this time,” Mickey says, still pissed at yesterday's betrayal. “How could she not believe you when you told her about Tania's stunt? If it were me, I would have beaten Tania's ass down all day and took you to Hometown Buffet afterwards.” Mickey is crazy, but I love her loyal spirit.