Authors: Toni Morrison
T
he reprieve took years but it came. Manley Gibson would die in a ward with others like himself rather than strapped to a chair with no kin looking on. It was a good thing. A great thing. He got to go outside and now he was part of the work crew at the lake road. The lake was so blue. The Kentucky Fried Chicken lunch so fine. Maybe he could run. Some joke. A fifty-two-year-old lifer on the run. Where to? To who? He had been in since 1961, leaving behind an eleven-year-old who didn’t write anymore, and the only photograph he had of her was when she was thirteen.
Lunchtime was special. They sat near the lake in full sight of the guards but near the water anyway. Manley wiped his hands on the little paper napkins. To his left, near a couple of trees, a young woman spread two blankets on the grass, a radio in between. Manley turned to see what the crew thought of this: a civilian (and a female, too) right in their midst. Armed guards strolled the road above them. None gave sign that they saw her.
She turned on the radio and stood up, revealing a face he’d know anywhere. For the life of him he couldn’t help it. “Gigi!” he hissed.
The girl looked his way. Manley, restraining himself, sauntered over to the trees, hoping the guards would think he was taking a leak.
“Am I right? Is it you?”
“Daddy Man?” At least she looked pleased to see him.
“It is you! Goddamn, I knew it. What you doing here? You knew I was reprieved?”
“No, I didn’t know nothing about it.”
“Well, look here, I don’t get out or nothing, but I ain’t on the row no more.” Manley turned to see if others had noticed them. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “So what you doing here?” He noticed her clothes for the first time. “You in the army?”
Gigi smiled. “Sort of.”
“Sort of? You mean you was?”
“Oh, Daddy Man, anybody can buy this stuff.” Gigi laughed.
“Gimme your address, honey. I wanna write and tell you everything. Hear from your mother? Her old man still alive?” He was rushing; the lunch whistle was due to sound any minute.
“I don’t have an address yet.” Gigi lifted her cap and replaced it.
“No? Well, uh, you write me, okay? Care of the prison. I’ll put you on the list tomorrow. I can get two a month—”
The whistle blew. “Two,” Manley repeated. Then, “Say, you still got that locket I give you?”
“I got it.”
“Ooh, honey, oh, honey, my little girl.” He reached out to touch her but stopped, saying, “I gotta go. They’ll demerit me. Care of the prison, hear? Two a month.” He backed away, still looking at her. “Will I hear from you?”
Gigi straightened her cap. “You will, Daddy Man. You will.”
Later, as Manley sat on the bus, he went over every detail of what he had seen of his daughter. Her army cap and fatigue pants—camouflage colors. Heavy army boots, black T-shirt. And now that he thought of it, he could swear she was packing. He looked toward the lake, darkening in a lower but prettier sun.
Gigi took off her clothes. The nights were chilling the lake, making it harder and harder for the sun to warm it the next day. In this part of the lake it was okay to swim nude. This was lake country: viridian water, upright trees and—in places where no boats or fishermen came—a privacy royals would envy. She picked up a towel and dried her hair. Less than an inch had grown, but she loved how wind and water and fingers and toes rippled in it. She opened a bottle of aloe and began to rub her skin. Then, straightening the towel next to her, she looked toward the lake where her companion was just coming ashore.
The fifteenth painting, like the first, needed more. Trying to remember the chin had frustrated Dee Dee in her first attempt, but when she decided to skip the jawline and just shadow the lower part of her daughter’s face, she found the eyes all wrong. Canvas fifteen got it better, but still something was missing. The head was fine, but the body, bleak and uninteresting, seemed to need another shape—at the hip or elbow. Never having experienced a compulsion that was not sensual, she was puzzled by the energy she could summon at will to freshen or begin the figure anew. The eyes kept coming up accusatory; the skin tone eluded her; and the hair was invariably a hat.
Dee Dee sat down on the floor, rolling the brush handle in her fingers while she examined the work she had done. With a long puff of air she got up and went into the living room. It was when she had taken the first sip of the margarita that she saw her coming across the yard, a knapsack or something tied to her chest. But she had no hair. No hair at all and a baby’s head lay just under her chin. As she came closer, Dee Dee could see two fat legs, round as doughnuts, poking out of the knapsack thing on its mother’s chest. She put down the margarita and pressed her face to the picture window. No mistake. It was Pallas. One hand on the knapsack bottom, the other carrying a sword. A sword? The smile on Pallas’ face was beatific. And her dress—rose madder and umber—swirled about her ankles with every step. Dee Dee waved and called out her name. Or tried to. While she thought “Pallas,” formed it in her mind, it came out different, like “urg,” then “neh neh.” Something was wrong with her tongue. Pallas was moving quickly but not coming toward the front door. She was moving past the house, to the side. Dee Dee, in a panic, ran into the studio, grabbed the fifteenth canvas and rushed to the patio, holding it up and shouting, “Urg. Urg. Neh!” Pallas turned, narrowed her eyes and paused as if trying to determine where the sound came from, then, failing, continued on her way. Dee Dee stopped, thinking maybe it was someone else. But with or without hair, that was her face, wasn’t it? She of all people knew her own daughter’s face, didn’t she? As well as she knew her own.
Dee Dee saw Pallas a second time. In the guest bedroom (where Carlos—the motherfucker—used to sleep), Pallas was searching under the bed. As Dee Dee watched, not daring to speak in case the glug sound came out of her mouth, Pallas raised up. With a satisfied grunt, she held aloft a pair of shoes she’d left there on her last, and first, visit. Huaraches, but expensive leather ones, not that plastic or straw stuff. Pallas didn’t turn; she left through the sliding glass door. Dee Dee followed and saw her get into a beat-up car waiting on the road. Other people were in the car but the sun was setting so Dee Dee couldn’t tell if they were men or women. They drove off into a violet so ultra it broke her heart.
Sally Albright, walking north on Calumet, stopped suddenly in front of the plate-glass window of Jennie’s Country Inn. She was sure, almost sure, that the woman sitting by herself at a table for four was her mother. Sally moved closer to peep under the woman’s straw hat. She couldn’t quite see the face but the fingernails, the hands holding the menu were indisputable. She went inside the restaurant. A lady near the cash register said, “May I help you?” Everyplace Sally went now, she gave folks pause. All because of her hair color. “No,” she told the lady. “I’m looking for a—Oh, there she is,” and, faking assuredness, sauntered over to the table for four. If she was wrong, she’d say, “’Scuse me, I thought you was somebody else.” She slipped into a chair and looked closely at the woman’s face.
“Mom?”
Mavis looked up. “Oh, my,” she said, smiling. “Look at you.”
“I wasn’t sure, the hat and all, but God, look, it is you.”
Mavis laughed.
“Oh, man. I knew it. God, Mom, it’s been…years!”
“I know. Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Just finished. I’m on my lunch hour. I work at—”
The waitress raised her order pad. “Have you all decided yet?”
“Yes,” said Mavis. “Orange juice, double grits and two eggs over medium.”
“Bacon?” asked the waitress.
“No, thanks.”
“We got good sausage—link and patty.”
“No, thanks. You serve gravy with the biscuits?”
“Sure do. Poured or on the side?”
“On the side, please.”
“Sure thing. And you?” She turned to Sally.
“Just coffee.”
“Oh, come on,” said Mavis. “Have something. My treat.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
The waitress left. Mavis lined up the place mat and flatware. “That’s what I like about this place. They let you choose. Gravy poured or on the side, see?”
“Mom! I don’t want to talk about food.” Sally felt as though her mother was sliding away, acting like their seeing each other wasn’t important.
“Well, you never did have much of an appetite.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Well, I couldn’t come back, could I?”
“You mean that warrant stuff?”
“I mean everything. How about you? You been all right?”
“Mostly. Frankie’s fine. Gets all A’s. But Billy James ain’t so hot.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Hangs out with some real scary little shits.”
“Oh, no.”
“You should go see him, Ma. Talk to him.”
“I will.”
“Will you?”
“Can I have my lunch first?” Mavis laughed and removed her hat.
“Ma. You cut your hair off.” There it was again—that slidey feeling. “It looks nice, though. How you like mine?”
“Cute.”
“No it ain’t. Thought I’d like blond tips, but I’m tired of it now. Maybe I’ll cut mine too.”
The waitress arrived and neatly arranged the plates. Mavis salted her grits and swirled the pat of butter on top. She sipped her orange juice and said, “Ooo. Fresh.”
It came out in a rush because she felt she had to hurry. If she was going to say anything, she had to hurry. “I was scared all the time, Ma. All the time. Even before the twins. But when you left, it got worse. You don’t know. I mean I was scared to fall asleep.”
“Taste this, honey.” Mavis offered her the glass of juice.
Sally took a quick swallow. “Daddy was—shit, I don’t know how you stood it. He’d get drunk and try to bother me, Ma.”
“Oh, baby.”
“I fought him, though. Told him the next time he passed out I was gonna cut his throat open. Would have, too.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mavis. “I didn’t know what else to do. You were always stronger than me.”
“Did you never think about us?”
“All the time. And I sneaked back to get a peep at you all.”
“No shit?” Sally grinned. “Where?”
“At the school, mostly. I was too scared to go by the house.”
“You wouldn’t know it now. Daddy married a woman who kicks his butt if he don’t act right and keep the yard clean and stuff. She packs a gun, too.”
Mavis laughed. “Good for her.”
“But I moved out. Me and Charmaine got us a place together over on Auburn. She’s a—”
“You sure you don’t want something? It’s really good, Sal.”
Sally picked up a fork, slipped it into her mother’s plate, scooping up a buttery dollop of grits. When the fork was in her mouth, their eyes met. Sally felt the nicest thing then. Something long and deep and slow and bright.
“You gonna leave again, Ma?”
“I have to, Sal.”
“You coming back?”
“Sure.”
“But you’ll try and talk to Billy James, won’t you? And Frankie’d love it. You want my address?”
“I’ll talk to Billy and tell Frankie I love him.”
“I’m sick and sorry about everything, Ma. I was just so scared all the time.”
“Me too.”
They were standing outside. The lunch crowd thickened with shoppers and their kids.
“Gimme a hug, baby.”
Sally put her arms around her mother’s waist and began to cry.
“Uh uh,” said Mavis. “None of that, now.”
Sally squeezed.
“Ouch,” said Mavis, laughing.
“What?”
“Nothing. That side hurts a bit, that’s all.”
“You okay?”
“I’m perfect, Sal.”
“I don’t know what you think about me, but I always loved, always, even when.”
“I know that, Sal. Know it now anyway.” Mavis pushed a shank of black and yellow hair behind her daughter’s ear and kissed her cheek. “Count on me, Sal.”
“See you again, won’t I?”
“Bye, Sal. Bye.”
Sally watched her mother disappear into the crowd. She ran her finger under her nose, then held the cheek that had been kissed. Did she give her the address? Where was she going? Did they pay? When did they pay the cashier? Sally touched her eyelids. One minute they were sopping biscuits; the next they were kissing in the street.
Several years ago she had checked out the foster home and saw the mother—a cheerful, no-nonsense woman the kids seemed to like. So, fine. That was it. Fine. She could go on with her life. And did. Until 1966, when her gaze was drawn to girls with huge chocolate eyes. Seneca would be older now, thirteen years old, but she checked with Mrs. Greer to see if she had kept in touch.
“Who are you, again?”
“Her cousin, Jean.”
“Well, she was only here for a short while—a few months really.”
“Do you know where…?”
“No, honey. I don’t know a thing.”
After that she was unexpectedly distracted in malls, theater ticket lines, buses. In 1968 she was certain she spotted her at a Little Richard concert, but the press of the crowd prevented a closer look. Jean was discreet about this subversive search. Jack didn’t know she’d had a child before (at fourteen), and it was after marriage, when she had his child, that she began the search for the eyes. The sightings came at such odd moments and in such strange places—once she believed the girl climbing out the back of a pickup truck was her daughter—that when she finally bumped into her, in 1976, she wanted to call an ambulance. Jean and Jack were crossing the stadium parking lot under blazing klieg lights. A girl was standing in front of a car, blood running from her hands. Jean saw the blood first and then the chocolate eyes.
“Seneca!” she screamed, and ran toward her. As she approached she was intercepted by another girl, who, holding a bottle of beer and a cloth, began to clean away the blood.
“Seneca?” Jean shouted over the second girl’s head.
“Yes?”
“What happened? It’s me!”
“Some glass,” said the second girl. “She fell on some glass. I’m taking care of her.”
“Jean! Come on!” Jack was several cars down. “Where the hell are you?”