Sapphire's Grave by Hilda Gurley Highgate Page A

ended, the music had stopped, and Sister had surveyed the crowd with her trademark arrogance.
    Tall and of regal bearing, Sister was not the ancient harridan Queen Marie had envisioned. She was shapely and unobtrusively beautiful, even
elegant
in her shabby dress and bare feet. She had walked up to Prince with her chin held high; and Queen Marie, uncertain of herself in the face of her rival, had half-hidden behind Prince; but Sister had regarded Queen Marie briefly, without envy, and with only a fleeting interest. She had stood as close to Prince as she could without stepping on his toes, and gestured toward her children.
    The girl was willowy and embarrassed, her face the face of a child far too wise for her years. She shot her father a desperate look, pleading in her long-lashed eyes. But when the eyes found Queen Marie in his shadow, they hardened with the hate Queen Marie had looked forward to engendering in her mother. Defiantly, Queen Marie raised her chin and glared back at the girl, touching Prince’s arm possessively. Who did she think she was, after all? These were grown folks’ affairs. But Queen Marie could not help but be impressed. This child was neither dull-witted nor subtle. In time, she could prove a remarkable foe.
    But it was the boy who most impressed Queen Marie. A small reproduction of his father, he had the hooded hazel eyes and bored expression of her Prince. Queen Marie fell immediately in love with this child who, unaware of his own charm, surveyed the room with little interest. He glanced dispassionately at his father, then meaningfully up at his mother. Taking sides, Queen Marie noted. She shrank behind Prince again, hoping the boy had not seen her, dreading his disapproval. She hated his mother for being his mother, and wished that the boy was her own.
    “You see dese?” Sister hissed at Prince. “Know what dey is? Dey your chirren, Prince. Da ones what you ain’t seen in months, and what ain’t seen a dime o’ yo’ t’bacco money in longer even dan dat.” She paused and raised one eyebrow. “You
is
still workin’, ain’t you?” Prince did not respond. He took a step backward, dropping his head. “Lawd ha’ mercy.” Sister threw up her hands. “You is just
go’
be triflin’, ain’t ya? It’s jes
in
ya.” Shaking her head in mock pity, Sister turned and walked away, her children in tow, and tossed over her shoulder one final condemnation.
    “Jes hope you don’t keep waivin’ ’at thing ’roun’ makin’ no mo’ o’ dese fo’ you to fo’get about. Niggas like you oughta be neutered.” With that she opened the door and led her children out of the hushed barroom.
    He had stayed with Queen Marie for several nights, making love to her with fervor. She had hoped that she could have his child—a boy. Like Sister’s. But he had heeded the veiled warning of his wife, always withdrawing from her at the moment of culmination, leaving her frustrated and fretful.
    “What you skeered of, Prince? I ain’ try’na ha’ no babies,” she had lied, marveling that he should begin to be cautious just as this ambition had dawned within her. She had tried hard to distract him, squeezing her knees closed around him, holding his buttocks firmly to prevent him from withdrawing, but he was adamant in his resolve: Queen Marie would have no babies with which to obligate him. He would have no more daughters, vulnerable and eager, to hurt with his absence; no more sons with eyes like his own, condemning and cursing and finally dismissing; no more of himself, in all of his wretchedness, squeezed into a tiny vessel: a child undeserving of the burden of this uselessness and colossal failure; no more responsibility imposed upon him by others wanting and needing and expecting from him.
    It was enough for Prince to immerse himself in pity and self-doubt, no sage advice to offer his son, no gleaming heroism to proffer his daughter in exchange for the adoration he read in her eyes. He could not