nothing? I've seen nothing. I know how every inch of this place smells, and you can't change a place without changing its smell. I kinda loved her for killing that soldier. All of them did. They said he needed killing and couldn't be no black to do it, so they was glad Other did it. Mama rested easier with the smell of murder gone from the place. That's how we all knew Other wasn't a natural-born killer. And Mama and Garlic weren't neither, for the smell of killer was gone from the place when the soldier died.
How happy can I be? Must I cry? I believe I must go, and keep going. There is nothing left for me here. I've had no word from R.; she's had two formal, kind missives. What will I find back in Atlanta upon my return? An abandoned house? A place to work at Beauty's? What?
Garlic will make arrangements for me to leave. It will be easier for them when I am gone. And it will be easier for me.
32
Jeems rode me back to Atlanta behind his horse, Hannibal. It's strange to think of Jeems driving his own horse and not one belong to the Twins or to their place. It's stranger than the Twins being dead. We all knew one day they would die, but no one knew one day Jeems would drive his own horse. Jeems is a good-looking man. I wonder I ain't seen it before. I guess it's what a fine-looking man he's become. I wonder what he would have been if the Twins had survived the war. Something less.
He's built a house for himself and a church for the community, he tells me while we're riding, but did I see he's not settled? Did he seem less each time he swung down from the horse? And don't he look fine with reins in his hand? A hammer give not quite the same effect. But he's a farmer during the week and a preacher on Sunday. He milks his cow every day, and don't ride enough.
He told me all this and I laughed and tried not to laugh too hard. Ever since I heard Garlic's laugh, I've been laughing too much, off and on, all the time, like crying. Jeems, he watched me laugh.
"Ever think on getting married, gal?"
"You asking me?"
"Why should I akse you?"
I laughed again. There was no reason he would ask me. I knew and he knew I knew it. So he surprised me when he said, "Maybe I'm aksing you." I didn't laugh. The words jangled in my head like pennies in a jarânot enough to buy something with but enough for the sound to strangle thought. Nobody ever put that question to me. And I didn't expect to ever hear it on a ride down from the country to the city. From a man I ain't kissed. I'm greedy for a second serving of those words. I want a dessert of those words, a soup, a salad. I wanted to salt those words and snap them in like peanuts. But Jeems is a friend back to sugar-tit days.
"Don't ask me."
"I'm asking you. Will you marry me?"
"I'm not the marrying kind."
"You not or he ain't?"
"I ain't. My Mama never married. We don't marry."
"Too bad," Jeems said and he clucked the horse on.
We walked on down the road. "How's Miss Kareen?"
"Miss...?"
"Kareen."
"She's in a convent."
"I know that. In Charleston. How she be?"
"Why you ask 'bout her?"
"She was the one we really liked."
The words fall on me hard, like a blowâa smack across the face, a slap on my rumpass, leaving the bright red blood tattoo of a hand. "Weâyou mean the Twins?"
I thought it was Other they sniffed after. I thought the homefolks thought Kareen's moaning over B. was some kind of too much sorry-for-yourself play-acting.
"We all loved Sugarbaby. B. was fixin' fo to marry hua. Woulda, 'cept for Gettysburg. S. was sweet on yo' sister."
"I don't have a sister." I didn't get the words out to say S. nor any other Southern gentleman would marry a nigger, when Jeems interrupts with one sly, snarled word: "Yeah."
I was ashamed for Mama and ashamed for not knowing he knew. I knew who he meant. And I knew he knew I knew. Why do I get stuck in these little circles?
Mammy didn't marry; I suspect I won't either. He asked me if I had a reason. And I just stared at
How happy can I be? Must I cry? I believe I must go, and keep going. There is nothing left for me here. I've had no word from R.; she's had two formal, kind missives. What will I find back in Atlanta upon my return? An abandoned house? A place to work at Beauty's? What?
Garlic will make arrangements for me to leave. It will be easier for them when I am gone. And it will be easier for me.
32
Jeems rode me back to Atlanta behind his horse, Hannibal. It's strange to think of Jeems driving his own horse and not one belong to the Twins or to their place. It's stranger than the Twins being dead. We all knew one day they would die, but no one knew one day Jeems would drive his own horse. Jeems is a good-looking man. I wonder I ain't seen it before. I guess it's what a fine-looking man he's become. I wonder what he would have been if the Twins had survived the war. Something less.
He's built a house for himself and a church for the community, he tells me while we're riding, but did I see he's not settled? Did he seem less each time he swung down from the horse? And don't he look fine with reins in his hand? A hammer give not quite the same effect. But he's a farmer during the week and a preacher on Sunday. He milks his cow every day, and don't ride enough.
He told me all this and I laughed and tried not to laugh too hard. Ever since I heard Garlic's laugh, I've been laughing too much, off and on, all the time, like crying. Jeems, he watched me laugh.
"Ever think on getting married, gal?"
"You asking me?"
"Why should I akse you?"
I laughed again. There was no reason he would ask me. I knew and he knew I knew it. So he surprised me when he said, "Maybe I'm aksing you." I didn't laugh. The words jangled in my head like pennies in a jarânot enough to buy something with but enough for the sound to strangle thought. Nobody ever put that question to me. And I didn't expect to ever hear it on a ride down from the country to the city. From a man I ain't kissed. I'm greedy for a second serving of those words. I want a dessert of those words, a soup, a salad. I wanted to salt those words and snap them in like peanuts. But Jeems is a friend back to sugar-tit days.
"Don't ask me."
"I'm asking you. Will you marry me?"
"I'm not the marrying kind."
"You not or he ain't?"
"I ain't. My Mama never married. We don't marry."
"Too bad," Jeems said and he clucked the horse on.
We walked on down the road. "How's Miss Kareen?"
"Miss...?"
"Kareen."
"She's in a convent."
"I know that. In Charleston. How she be?"
"Why you ask 'bout her?"
"She was the one we really liked."
The words fall on me hard, like a blowâa smack across the face, a slap on my rumpass, leaving the bright red blood tattoo of a hand. "Weâyou mean the Twins?"
I thought it was Other they sniffed after. I thought the homefolks thought Kareen's moaning over B. was some kind of too much sorry-for-yourself play-acting.
"We all loved Sugarbaby. B. was fixin' fo to marry hua. Woulda, 'cept for Gettysburg. S. was sweet on yo' sister."
"I don't have a sister." I didn't get the words out to say S. nor any other Southern gentleman would marry a nigger, when Jeems interrupts with one sly, snarled word: "Yeah."
I was ashamed for Mama and ashamed for not knowing he knew. I knew who he meant. And I knew he knew I knew. Why do I get stuck in these little circles?
Mammy didn't marry; I suspect I won't either. He asked me if I had a reason. And I just stared at
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