I might have to pick up my kids and get the hell on out of here. I can't keep up these house notes. They kicking my behind. And the older these kids get the more they eat and the more they want."
"Who you telling, chile? Mine's is almost a football team. I swear, you lucky, you ain't got a houseful of big-head nappy and hardheaded boys. They stay in and out of trouble. Money don't seem to give you none."
"Not yet, at least, but you know he got his daddy's blood, no offense. How's Crook's health, anyway? Is he still dranking like it's going out of style?"
"Chile, that ain't the half of it. You should've seen him and Ernestine the other night at the Shingle. They had a band. Wasn't saying nothing, but girl, they acted like pure damn fools. Him and her just sloppy, I mean pissy drunk, and you know how loud she get."
"Yeah, I know how loud she get," Mildred said, lighting a cigarette.
"They could barely hold each other up. I acted like I didn't know 'em. Fletcher threw 'em both out. And I don't care if he marry that whore, she ain't never gon' be no kin to me, and won't never step one rusty foot in my door neither. She trifling, and besides, you'll always be my sister-in-law, sis."
"He know he shouldn't be doing so much dranking. That man is about as stupid as he looks. Got about as much brains as a field mouse, and he gon' end up back in that sanitarium if he keep this up."
"Well, he ain't been back to the doctor in God knows when, but that's all right. It'll catch up to him. You mark my words. If he live to see fifty it'll be a miracle and the will of God, and I'll tell you, Mil, God'a see fit to it that Crook obeys his laws. Abusing hisself like he do ain't nowhere in the Bible, is it?"
"Honey, I wouldn't know, been so damn long since I read it."
Since Mildred and Crook had broken up, she hadn't exactly resigned herself to being a widow, so to speak, but the men in Point Haven not only bored her to death but barely had a pot of their own to piss in, and if they did, helping out a woman with five kids was not their idea of having a good time, no matter how good she could make them feel in bed.
Mildred had stopped wearing that awful platinum wig, even though she knew she looked damn good in it. Now she wore her own hair, rusty red to suit her reddish skin tone. She let Curly trim it for her every now and then because it grew so fast and got too bushy and thick. A lot of colored women envied her shoulder-length hair. They thought if your hair was long and thick and halfway straight and didn't roll up into tight black pearls at the nape of your neck, you were full of white blood, which made you lucky. In 1966 most colored women in Point Haven wanted desperately to have long straight hair instead of their own knotty mounds. To get it like that, they wore wigs or rubbed Dixie Peach or Royal Crown hair grease into their scalps and laid the straightening comb over the gas burner and whipped it through their hair until it sizzled. Sometimes Mildred didn't feel like being bothered, sitting in that chair for almost an hour just for the straightening part, and maybe another hour to get it bumper-curled. Most of the time she would roll it up with brush rollers and let it go at that. Mildred usually didn't care what people thought.
Whenever she went to the bar, somebody's husband usually offered to buy her a drink. They always had that I've-been-waiting-for-you-to-get-rid-of-that-sorry-niggah look in their eyes. But Mildred would just accept their drink offer, make small talk—usually about the condition of their wives—then turn her back to them and continue running her mouth with her female friends.
Mildred didn't believe in messing around with anybody's husband, no matter what kind of financial proposition they made. The way she figured it, when and if she ever did get herself another husband, she damn sure didn't want a soul messing with hers. She truly believed in the motto that what goes around comes around. She'd
"Who you telling, chile? Mine's is almost a football team. I swear, you lucky, you ain't got a houseful of big-head nappy and hardheaded boys. They stay in and out of trouble. Money don't seem to give you none."
"Not yet, at least, but you know he got his daddy's blood, no offense. How's Crook's health, anyway? Is he still dranking like it's going out of style?"
"Chile, that ain't the half of it. You should've seen him and Ernestine the other night at the Shingle. They had a band. Wasn't saying nothing, but girl, they acted like pure damn fools. Him and her just sloppy, I mean pissy drunk, and you know how loud she get."
"Yeah, I know how loud she get," Mildred said, lighting a cigarette.
"They could barely hold each other up. I acted like I didn't know 'em. Fletcher threw 'em both out. And I don't care if he marry that whore, she ain't never gon' be no kin to me, and won't never step one rusty foot in my door neither. She trifling, and besides, you'll always be my sister-in-law, sis."
"He know he shouldn't be doing so much dranking. That man is about as stupid as he looks. Got about as much brains as a field mouse, and he gon' end up back in that sanitarium if he keep this up."
"Well, he ain't been back to the doctor in God knows when, but that's all right. It'll catch up to him. You mark my words. If he live to see fifty it'll be a miracle and the will of God, and I'll tell you, Mil, God'a see fit to it that Crook obeys his laws. Abusing hisself like he do ain't nowhere in the Bible, is it?"
"Honey, I wouldn't know, been so damn long since I read it."
Since Mildred and Crook had broken up, she hadn't exactly resigned herself to being a widow, so to speak, but the men in Point Haven not only bored her to death but barely had a pot of their own to piss in, and if they did, helping out a woman with five kids was not their idea of having a good time, no matter how good she could make them feel in bed.
Mildred had stopped wearing that awful platinum wig, even though she knew she looked damn good in it. Now she wore her own hair, rusty red to suit her reddish skin tone. She let Curly trim it for her every now and then because it grew so fast and got too bushy and thick. A lot of colored women envied her shoulder-length hair. They thought if your hair was long and thick and halfway straight and didn't roll up into tight black pearls at the nape of your neck, you were full of white blood, which made you lucky. In 1966 most colored women in Point Haven wanted desperately to have long straight hair instead of their own knotty mounds. To get it like that, they wore wigs or rubbed Dixie Peach or Royal Crown hair grease into their scalps and laid the straightening comb over the gas burner and whipped it through their hair until it sizzled. Sometimes Mildred didn't feel like being bothered, sitting in that chair for almost an hour just for the straightening part, and maybe another hour to get it bumper-curled. Most of the time she would roll it up with brush rollers and let it go at that. Mildred usually didn't care what people thought.
Whenever she went to the bar, somebody's husband usually offered to buy her a drink. They always had that I've-been-waiting-for-you-to-get-rid-of-that-sorry-niggah look in their eyes. But Mildred would just accept their drink offer, make small talk—usually about the condition of their wives—then turn her back to them and continue running her mouth with her female friends.
Mildred didn't believe in messing around with anybody's husband, no matter what kind of financial proposition they made. The way she figured it, when and if she ever did get herself another husband, she damn sure didn't want a soul messing with hers. She truly believed in the motto that what goes around comes around. She'd
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