Discussion Board Post 3 Prompt
The short stories assigned were Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” and Bobbie Ann Mason’s “Shiloh.” Both stories show families dealing with a strong presence of the past–history and inheritance–and the effects this past has on the families’ present circumstances.
For Discussion Board Post 3: choose 1 short passage from “Everyday Use” and 1 short passage from “Shiloh” (no more than 1, maybe 2 sentences each), and compare the passages to each other based on how the characters within the 2 different stories deal with the past, history, and/or inheritance.SiiiLOH
L e r o y M o f f i t t ‘ s w i f e , N o r m a Jean, is w o r k i n g o n her pectorals. She l i f t s *
t h r e e – p o u n d d u m b b e l l s to w a r m u p , t h e n progresses to a t w e n t y – p o u n d
barbell. Standing w i t h her legs apart, she reminds Leroy o f Wonder W o m a n .
” I ‘ d give a n y t h i n g i f 1 c o u l d j u s t get these muscles to w h e r e they’re real
hard,” says N o r m a Jean. “Feel this a r m . It’s n o t as h a r d as the other one.”
“That’s cause you’re right-handed,” says Leroy, d o d g i n g as she swings the
barbell i n an arc.
” D o y o u t h i n k so?”
fiv*«fm
“Sure.”
L e r o y is a t r u c k d r i v e r . H e i n j u r e d his leg i n a h i g h w a y accident four
m o n t h s ago, and his physical therapy, w h i c h involves weights a n d a pulley,
p r o m p t e d N o r m a Jean to t r y b u i l d i n g herself u p . N o w she is a t t e n d i n g a
b o d y – b u i l d i n g class. Leroy has been c o l l e c t i n g temporary disability since his
tractor-trailer j a c k k n i f e d i n M i s s o u r i , badly t w i s t i n g his left leg i n its socket.
H e has a steel p i n i n his h i p . H e w i l l probably n o t be able to drive his rig
again. I t sits i n the backyard, like a gigantic b i r d t h a t has f l o w n h o m e to
roost. L e r o y has been b o m e i n K e n t u c k y for three m o n t h s , and his leg is almost healed, b u t the accident frightened h i m a n d he does not w a n t to drive
any more l o n g hauls. H e is not sure w h a t to do next. I n the m e a n t i m e , he
makes things f r o m craft kits. H e started hy b u i l d i n g a m i n i a t u r e l o g cabin
f r o m n o t c h e d Popsicle sticks. H e varnished i t a n d placed i t o n the T V set,
w h e r e i t remains. I t r e m i n d s h i m o f a rustic N a t i v i t y scene. T h e n he tried
string art (sailing ships o n black velvet), a m a c r a m e ‘ o w l k i t , a snap-together
B-17 F l y i n g Fortress, and a l a m p made o u t o f a m o d e l t r u c k , w i t h a light fixt u r e screwed i n t h e t o p o f t h e cab. A t first the kits were diversions, some1. Site of one of the hloodiest battles of the C.vil
War. also known as the Battle of P'”»bo^Landmg^
which took place on Apri ^’^^
^l”’,,^^’
National Militaty Park is hwated
‘heba. e s,,e t
in southwest Tennessee, near Connth, Mississippi.
2. A
coarse fringe
or lat
a.
A coarse
iringe ,.,
..a ei of
a knotted thread used to
During its popularity in the ‘^’•O^; >’
u„d
pil’
lid pl’to decorate furniture
make plant hangers,
hang,
lows, and as wallhangings
/
959
t h i n g to k i l l t i m e , b u t n o w he is t h i n k i n g about b u i l d i n g a full-scale log
house from a k i t . I t w o u l d be considerably cheaper t h a n b u i l d i n g a regular
house, and besides, Leroy has g r o w n to appreciate h o w things are p u t together. H e has begun to realize tbat i n a l l the years he was o n the road he
never t o o k t i m e to examine a n y t h i n g . H e was always flying past scenery.
“They w o n ‘ t let y o u b u i l d a log c a b i n i n any o f the new subdivisions,”
N o r m a Jean tells h i m .
“They w i l l i f I tell t h e m it’s for y o u , ” he says, teasing her. Ever since they
were m a r r i e d , he has p r o m i s e d N o r m a Jean he w o u l d b u i l d her a new home
one day. T h e y have always rented, and the house they live i n is s m a l l a n d
nondescript. I t does n o t even feel like a h o m e , Leroy realizes now.
N o r m a Jean works at the Rexall drugstore, and she has acquired an amazing a m o u n t o f i n f o r m a t i o n about cosmetics. W h e n she explains to Leroy the
three stages o f c o m p l e x i o n care, involving creams, toners, and moisturizers,
he t h i n k s happily o f o t h e r p e t r o l e u m products—axle grease, diesel fuel.
T h i s is a c o n n e c t i o n between h i m and N o r m a Jean. Since he has been
bome, he has felt u n u s u a l l y tender about his wife a n d g u i l t y over his l o n g
absences. B u t he can’t t e l l w h a t she feels about h i m . N o r m a Jean has never
c o m p l a i n e d about his traveling; she has never made h u r t remarks, like calling his t r u c k a “widow-maker.” H e is reasonably certain she has been f a i t h ful to h i m , b u t he wishes she w o u l d celebrate his p e r m a n e n t h o m e – c o m i n g
more happily. N o r m a Jean is often startled to f i n d Leroy at h o m e , a n d he
t h i n k s she seems a little disappointed about i t . Perhaps he r e m i n d s her too
m u c h o f the early days o f t h e i r marriage, before be w e n t o n the road. T h e y
had a c h i l d w h o d i e d as an i n f a n t , years ago. They never speak about t h e i r
memories o f Randy, w h i c h have almost faded, b u t n o w t h a t Leroy is h o m e
all the t i m e , they sometimes feel a w k w a r d a r o u n d each other, a n d Leroy
wonders i f one o f t h e m s h o u l d m e n t i o n the c h i l d . H e has the feeling that
they are w a k i n g up o u t o f a dream together—that they m u s t create a new
marriage, start afresh. T h e y are l u c k y they are still m a r r i e d . Leroy has read
that for most people losing a c h i l d destroys the marriage—or else he heard
this o n Donahue. H e can’t always r e m e m b e r where he learns things anymore.
A t C h r i s t m a s , Leroy b o u g h t an electric organ for N o r m a Jean. She used
to play the piano w h e n she was i n h i g h school. ” I t don’t leave y o u , ” she t o l d
h i m once. “It’s like r i d i n g a bicycle.”
T h e new i n s t r u m e n t had so m a n y keys a n d b u t t o n s that she was b e w i l dered by it at first. She t o u c h e d the keys tentatively, pushed some b u t t o n s ,
then pecked o u t “Chopsticks.” I t came o u t i n an a m p l i f i e d fox-trot r h y t h m ,
M t h m a r i m b a sounds.’
n o / 1 b o i m t n t’ t l u u i vlis i l
“It’s an orchestra!” she c r i e d .
T h e organ had a pecan-look finish a n d eighteen preset chords, w i t h optional flute, v i o l i n , t r u m p e t , c l a r i n e t , and banjo a c c o m p a n i m e n t s . N o r m a
Jean mastered the organ almost immediately. A t first she played C h r i s t m a s
songs. T h e n she b o u g h t TTie Sixties Songhook and learned every tune i n i t ,
adding variations to each w i t h the rows o f b r i g h t l y c o l o r e d b u t t o n s .
Sounds from a type of xylophone.
960
/
BOBBIE ANN MASON
” I d i d n ‘ t like these o l d songs back t h e n , ” she said. ” B u t 1 have this crazy
feeling I missed something.”
“You d i d n ‘ t miss a t h i n g , ” said Leroy. ” T – ••
. i v ‘ – r’ b ^ ‘ •
Leroy likes to lie on the c o u c h a n d smoke a j o i n t and listen t o N o r m a
Jean play “Can’t Take M y Eyes O f f You” and ” I ‘ l l Be Back.” H e is back
again. A f t e r fifteen years o n the road, he is finally settling d o w n w i t h the
w o m a n he loves. She is still pretty. H e r skin is flawless. H e r frosted curls
resemble p e n c i l t r i m m i n g s .
•noto zfid Til .boi I
N o w that L e r o y has come h o m e to stay, he notices h o w m u c h the t o w n
has changed. Subdivisions are spreading across western K e n t u c k y like an
oil slick. T h e sign at t h e edge o f t o w n says “Pop: 1 1 , 5 0 0 ” — o n l y seven h u n dred more t h a n i t said t w e n t y years before. Leroy can’t figure out w h o is living i n a l l the new houses. T h e farmers w h o used to gather a r o u n d the courthouse square o n Saturday afternoons to play checkers and spit tobaccol!
j u i c e have gone. I t has been years since Leroy has t h o u g h t about t h e f a r m – l
ers, a n d they have disappeared w i t h o u t his n o t i c i n g .
‘
L e r o y meets a k i d n a m e d Stevie H a m i l t o n i n the p a r k i n g l o t at the new
s h o p p i n g center. W h i l e they p r e t e n d to be strangers m e e t i n g over a stalled
car, Stevie tosses an ounce o f marijuana u n d e r the f r o n t seat o f Leroy’s car.
Stevie is w e a r i n g orange j o g g i n g shoes and a T-shirt that says C H A T T A H O O C H E E SUPER-RAT. H i s father is a p r o m i n e n t doctor w h o lives i n one o f the
expensive subdivisions i n a new w h i t e – c o l u m n e d b r i c k house that looks like
a f u n e r a l parlor. I n the p h o n e b o o k u n d e r his name there is a separate
number, w i t h the l i s t i n g “Teenagers.”
” W h e r e do you get t h i s stuff?” asks Leroy. ” E r o m your pappy?”
“That’s for me to k n o w and y o u to f i n d out,” Stevie says. H e is slit-eyed
a n d skinny.
” W h a t else you got?”
J. ” W h a t you interested in?”
‘ ” N o t h i n g special. Just w o n d e r e d . ”
L e r o y used t o take speed o n t h e road. N o w he has t o go slowly. H e needs
to be mellow. H e leans back against the car and says, ” I ‘ m a i m i n g to b u i l d
me a l o g house, soon as I get t i m e . M y wife, t h o u g h , I d o n ‘ t t h i n k she likes
the idea.”
” W e l l , let me k n o w w h e n you w a n t me again,” Stevie says. H e has a cigarette i n his c u p p e d p a l m , as t h o u g h sheltering i t f r o m the w i n d . H e takes
a l o n g drag, t h e n stomps i t o n the asphalt a n d slouches away.
Stevie’s father was t w o years ahead o f L e r o y i n h i g h school. Leroy is
t h i r t y – f o u r . H e m a r r i e d N o r m a Jean w h e n they were b o t h eighteen, and
their c h i l d Randy was b o r n a few m o n t h s later, b u t he died at the age o f four
m o n t h s a n d three days. H e w o u l d be about Stevie’s age now. N o r m a Jean
a n d Leroy were at the d r i v e – i n , w a t c h i n g a double feature (Dr. Strangelove
a n d Lover Come Back), a n d t h e baby was sleeping i n the back seat. W h e n
the first movie ended, the baby was dead. I t was the sudden infant death
syndrome. L e r o y remembers h a n d i n g Randy t o a nurse at the emergency
r o o m , as t h o u g h he were o f f e r i n g her a large d o l l as a present. A dead baby
feels like a sack o f flour. ” I t j u s t happens sometimes,” said the doctor, m
w h a t Leroy always recalls as a n o n c h a l a n t tone. Leroy can hardly remern-
SHILOH
/
961
her the c h i l d anymore, b u t he still sees vividly a scene f r o m Dr. Strangelove
in w h i c h the President o f the U n i t e d States was t a l k i n g i n a folksy voice o n
the h o t l i n e to the Soviet p r e m i e r about the b o m b e r accidentally headed toward Russia. H e was i n the W a r R o o m , a n d the w o r l d map was l i t u p . Leroy
remembers N o r m a Jean standing catatonically beside h i m i n the hospital
a n d h i m s e l f t h i n k i n g : W h o is this strange girl? H e had forgotten w h o she
was. N o w scientists are saying that c r i b death is caused by a virus. N o b o d y
k n o w s a n y t h i n g , L e r o y t h i n k s . T h e answers are always c h a n g i n g .
W h e n Leroy gets home from the shopping center. N o r m a Jean’s mother,
M a b e l Beasley, is there. U n t i l this year, Leroy has not realized h o w m u c h
time she spends w i t h N o r m a Jean. W h e n she visits, she inspects the closets
and then the plants, i n f o r m i n g N o r m a Jean w h e n a plant is droopy or yellow.
M a b e l calls the plants “flowers,” although there are never any blooms. She a l ways notices i f N o r m a Jean’s laundry is p i l i n g up. M a b e l is a short, overweight
w o m a n whose tight, brown-dyed curls look more like a w i g than the actual w i g
she sometimes wears. Today she has brought N o r m a Jean an off-white dust
ruffle she made for the bed; M a b e l works i n a custom-upholstery shop.
“This is the t e n t h one I made this year,” M a b e l says. ” I got started a n d
c o u l d n ‘ t stop.”
“It’s
real pretty,” says N o r m a Jean.
“Now we can hide things under the bed,” says Leroy, w h o gets along w i t h
his m o t h e r – i n – l a w p r i m a r i l y by j o k i n g w i t h her. M a b e l has never really forgiven h i m for disgracing her by g e t t i n g N o r m a Jean pregnant. W h e n the
baby died, she said that fate was m o c k i n g her.
“What’s that t h i n g ? ” M a b e l says to Leroy i n a l o u d voice, p o i n t i n g to a
tangle o f y a r n o n a piece o f canvas.
Leroy holds i t u p for M a b e l to see. “It’s m y needlepoint,” he explains.
“This is a Star Trek p i l l o w cover.”
“That’s w h a t a w o m a n w o u l d do,” says M a b e l . “Great day i n the m o r n i n g ! ”
” A l l the b i g football players o n T V do i t , ” he says.
“Why, Leroy, you’re always t r y i n g to fool me. I don’t believe y o u for one
m i n u t e . You don’t know w h a t to do w i t h yourself—that’s the w h o l e t r o u b l e .
Sewing!”
” I ‘ m a i m i n g to b u i l d us a l o g house,” says Leroy. “Soon as m y plans
come.”
J ic. ,; nan.- f. o’i
” L i k e heck you are,” says N o r m a Jean. She takes Leroy’s needlepoint a n d
shoves i t i n t o a drawer. “You have to f i n d a j o b first. N o b o d y can afford to
b u i l d n o w anyway.”
M a b e l straightens her girdle and says, ” I still t h i n k before y o u get t i e d
d o w n y’all o u g b t to take a little r u n to S h i l o h . ”
“One o f these days. M a m a , ” N o r m a Jean says impatiently.
M a b e l is t a l k i n g about S h i l o h , Tennessee. Eor the past few years, she has
been u r g i n g L e r o y a n d N o r m a Jean t o visit t h e C i v i l W a r b a t t l e g r o u n d
there. M a b e l w e n t tbere on ber h o n e y m o o n — t h e only real t r i p she ever
took. H e r husband died o f a perforated ulcer w b e n N o r m a Jean was ten, b u t
M a b e l , w h o was accepted i n t o the U n i t e d Daughters o f the Confederacy*
In 1975, is s t i l l p r e o c c u p i e d w i t h g o i n g back to S h i l o h .
r. An organization of womon directly descended from members of the army and navy of the Confederac)^
founded in 1894 at Nashville, Tennessee.
!. J o
ffail ‘ i U i
962
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BOBBIE ANN MASON
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A’.’
SHILOH
/
963
“I’ve been to k i n g d o m come a n d back i n that t r u c k o u t yonder,” Leroy
says to M a b e l , “but we never yet set foot i n that b a t t l e g r o u n d . A i n ‘ t that
something? H o w d i d I miss it?”
ICJKJ J JI O a i u o
“It’s not even that far,” M a b e l says.
After M a b e l leaves. N o r m a Jean reads to L e r o y f r o m a list she has made.
“Things you c o u l d do,” she announces. “You c o u l d get a j o b as a guard at
U n i o n Carbide, where they’d let y o u set o n a stool. You c o u l d get o n at the
lumberyard. You c o u l d do a little carpenter w o r k , i f y o u w a n t to b u i l d so bad.
You c o u l d — ”
” I can’t do s o m e t h i n g where I ‘ d have to stand up a l l day.”
fei'”You o u g h t to try standing up a l l day b e h i n d a cosmetics counter. It’s
amazing that I have strong feet, c o m i n g f r o m t w o parents t h a t never had
strong feet at a l l . ” A t the m o m e n t N o r m a Jean is h o l d i n g o n to the k i t c h e n
counter, raising her knees one at a t i m e as she talks. She is w e a r i n g t w o p o u n d ankle weights.
Jean is probably r i g h t about a log house being inappropriate here i n the new
subdivisions. A l l the houses look grand and c o m p l i c a t e d . T h e y depress h i m .
O n e day w h e n Leroy comes h o m e f r o m a drive he finds N o r m a Jean i n
tears. She is i n the k i t c h e n m a k i n g a potato a n d mushroom-soup casserole,
w i t h grated-cheese t o p p i n g . She is c r y i n g because her m o t h e r caught her
smoking.
” D o n ‘ t worry,” says Leroy. ” I ‘ l l do s o m e t h i n g . ”
“You c o u l d t r u c k calves to slaughter for somebody. You w o u l d n ‘ t have to
drive any b i g o l d t r u c k for that.”
” I ‘ m going to b u i l d y o u this house,” says Leroy. ” I w a n t to make y o u a real
home.”
” I ‘ m j u s t k i d d i n g . H e r e , play me a tune. T h a t ‘ l l help you relax.”
N o r m a Jean puts the casserole i n the oven a n d sets the timer. T h e n she
plays a ragtime tune, w i t h horns a n d banjo, as Leroy lights u p a j o i n t a n d
lies o n the c o u c h , l a u g h i n g to h i m s e l f about Mabel’s c a t c h i n g h i m at i t . H e
t h i n k s o f Stevie H a m i l t o n — a doctor’s son p u s h i n g grass. E v e r y t h i n g is
funny. T h e w h o l e t o w n seems crazy and small. H e is r e m i n d e d o f V i r g i l
M a t h i s , a boastful p o l i c e m a n Leroy used to shoot p o o l w i t h . V i r g i l recently
led a d r u g bust i n a back r o o m at a b o w l i n g alley, where he seized t e n t h o u sand dollars’ w o r t h o f marijuana. T h e newspaper had a p i c t u r e o f h i m h o l d ing up the bags o f grass a n d g r i n n i n g widely. R i g h t now, Leroy can imagine
V i r g i l breaking d o w n the door and arresting h i m w i t h a l u n g f u l o f smoke.
V i r g i l w o u l d probably have been alerted to the scene because o f a l l the
racket N o r m a Jean is m a k i n g . N o w she sounds like a h a r d – r o c k b a n d .
N o r m a Jean is terrific. W h e n she switches to a L a t i n – r h y t h m version o f
“Sunshine S u p e r m a n , ” L e r o y h u m s along. N o r m a Jean’s foot goes u p a n d
down, up and down.
,o / B V i> ynivKR iii d i
” I don’t w a n t to live i n any l o g c a b i n . ”
vf”It’s not a c a b i n . It’s a house.”
‘
” I don’t care. I t looks like a c a b i n . ”
“You a n d me together c o u l d lift those logs. It’s j u s t like l i f t i n g weights.”
N o r m a Jean doesn’t answer. U n d e r her breath, she is c o u n t i n g . N o w she
is m a r c h i n g t h r o u g h the k i t c h e n . She is d o i n g goose steps.
Before his accident, w h e n Leroy came h o m e he used to stay i n the house
w i t h N o r m a Jean, w a t c h i n g T V i n bed a n d p l a y i n g cards. She w o u l d cook
fried c h i c k e n , p i c n i c h a m , chocolate p i e — a l l his favorites. N o w he is h o m e
alone m u c h o f the t i m e . I n the m o r n i n g s . N o r m a Jean disappears, leaving
a c o o l i n g place i n the bed. She eats a cereal called Body Buddies, a n d she
leaves the b o w l o n the table, w i t h the soggy t a n balls f l o a t i n g i n a m i l k
p u d d l e . H e sees things about N o r m a Jean that he never realized before.
W h e n she chops onions, she stares o f f i n t o a corner, as i f she can’t bear to
look. She puts o n her house slippers almost precisely at n i n e o’clock every
evening and nudges her j o g g i n g shoes u n d e r the c o u c h . She saves bread
heels for the birds. Leroy watches the birds at the feeder. H e notices the peculiar way goldfinches fly past the w i n d o w . They close their wings, t h e n fall,
t h e n spread t h e i r wings to c a t c h and l i f t themselves. H e wonders i f they
close t h e i r eyes w h e n they f a l l . N o r m a Jean closes her eyes w h e n they are
i n bed. She wants the lights t u r n e d o u t . Even t h e n , he is sure she closes her
eyes.
H e goes for l o n g drives a r o u n d t o w n . H e tends to drive a car rather carelessly. Power steering a n d an a u t o m a t i c shift make a car feel so small and
i n c o n s e q u e n t i a l that his body is hardly involved i n the d r i v i n g process. H i s
injured leg stretches out comfortably. O n c e or twice he has almost h i t somet h i n g , b u t even tbe prospect o f an accident seems m i n o r i n a car. H e cruises
the new subdivisions, feeling like a c r i m i n a l rehearsing for a robbery. N o r m a
” I d i d n ‘ t hear her c o m i n g . I was standing here p u f f i n g away pretty as y o u
please,” N o r m a Jean says, w i p i n g her eyes.
” I k n e w i t w o u l d happen sooner or later,” says Leroy, p u t t i n g his a r m
a r o u n d her.
“She don’t k n o w the m e a n i n g o f the w o r d ‘knock,’ ” says N o r m a Jean. “It’s
a w o n d e r she hadn’t caught me years ago.”
” T h i n k o f i t this way,” Leroy says. ” W h a t i f she caught me w i t h a j o i n t ? ”
“You better not let her!” N o r m a Jean shrieks. ” I ‘ m w a r n i n g y o u , Leroy
Moffitt!”
” W e l l , w h a t do y o u t h i n k ? ” L e r o y says, w h e n N o r m a Jean pauses t o
search t h r o u g h her m u s i c .
” W h a t do I t h i n k about what?”
His m i n d has gone blank. T h e n he says, ” I ‘ l l sell m y r i g and b u i l d us a
house.” T h a t wasn’t w h a t he w a n t e d to say. H e w a n t e d to k n o w w h a t she
t h o u g h t — w h a t she really t h o u g h t — a b o u t t h e m .
” D o n ‘ t start i n o n t h a t again,” says N o r m a Jean. She begins p l a y i n g
” W h o ‘ l l Be the Next i n L i n e ? ”
Leroy used to t e l l h i t c h h i k e r s his w h o l e life story—about his travels, his
h o m e t o w n , the baby. H e w o u l d e n d w i t h a question: ” W e l l , w h a t do y o u
t h i n k ? ” I t was j u s t a r h e t o r i c a l question. I n t i m e , he had the feeling that
he’d been t e l l i n g the same story over and over to the same h i t c h h i k e r s . H e
q u i t t a l k i n g to h i t c h h i k e r s w h e n he realized h o w his voice s o u n d e d — w h i n ing a n d self-pitying, like some teenage-tragedy song. N o w Leroy has the
sudden i m p u l s e to tell N o r m a Jean about bimself, as i f he had j u s t m e t her.
They have k n o w n each other so l o n g they have forgotten a lot about each
other. T h e y c o u l d become reacquainted. B u t w h e n the oven t i m e r goes o f f
and she runs to the k i t c h e n , he forgets w h y he wants to do this.
964
/
BOBBIE ANN MASON
T h e next day, M a b e l drops by. I t is Saturday and N o r m a Jean is cleaning.
Leroy is s t u d y i n g tbe plans o f his log house, w h i c h have finally c o m e i n the
m a i l . He has t h e m spread o u t o n the t a b l e — b i g sheets o f stiff blue paper,
w i t h diagrams and n u m b e r s p r i n t e d i n w h i t e . W h i l e N o r m a Jean runs the
v a c u u m , M a b e l d r i n k s coffee. She sets her coffee c u p o n a b l u e p r i n t .
” I ‘ m j u s t w a i t i n g for t i m e to pass,” she says to Leroy, d r u m m i n g her f i n gers on the table.
As soon as N o r m a Jean switches o f f the v a c u u m , M a b e l says i n a l o u d
voice, ” D i d you hear about the datsun dog that k i l l e d the baby?”
N o r m a Jean says, “The w o r d is ‘ d a c h s h u n d . ‘ ”
“They p u t the dog o n t r i a l . I t chewed the baby’s legs off. T h e m o t h e r was
i n the next r o o m a l l the t i m e . ” She raises her voice. “They t h o u g h t i t was
neglect.”
N o r m a Jean is h o l d i n g her ears. L e r o y manages to open the refrigerator
a n d get some D i e t Pepsi to offer M a b e l . M a b e l still has some coffee and she
waves away the Pepsi.
“Datsuns are like that,” M a b e l says. “They’re jealous dogs. T h e y ‘ l l tear a
place to pieces i f you don’t keep an eye on t h e m . ”
“You better w a t c h o u t w h a t you’re saying, M a b e l , ” says Leroy.
•!
r i ” W e l l , facts is facts.”
o J i i n r B l l waje
io a}i d /
Leroy looks out the w i n d o w at his r i g . I t is like a huge piece o f f u r n i t u r e
gathering dust i n the backyard. Pretty soon i t w i l l be an a n t i q u e . H e hears
the v a c u u m cleaner. N o r m a Jean seems to be c l e a n i n g the l i v i n g r o o m r u g
again.
Later, she says to Leroy, “She j u s t said t h a t about the baby because she
caught me s m o k i n g . She’s t r y i n g to pay me back.”
” W h a t are y o u t a l k i n g about?” Leroy says, nervously s h u f f l i n g blueprints.
‘ ” Y o u k n o w good and w e l l , ” N o r m a Jean says. She is s i t t i n g i n a k i t c h e n
chair w i t h her feet u p and her arms wrapped a r o u n d her knees. She looks
small and helpless. She says, “The very idea, her b r i n g i n g up a subject like
that! Saying i t was neglect.”
“She d i d n ‘ t mean that,” Leroy says.
“She m i g h t not have thought she m e a n t i t . She always says things like
that. You don’t k n o w h o w she goes o n . ”
” B u t she d i d n ‘ t really mean i t . She was j u s t t a l k i n g . ”
Leroy opens a king-sized bottle o f beer and pours i t i n t o t w o glasses, d i v i d i n g i t carefully. H e hands a glass to N o r m a Jean and she takes i t from h i m
mechanically. For a l o n g t i m e , they sit by the k i t c h e n w i n d o w w a t c h i n g the
birds at the feeder.
S o m e t h i n g is happening. N o r m a Jean is g o i n g to n i g h t school. She has
graduated f r o m her six-week b o d y – b u i l d i n g course and n o w she is t a k i n g an
a d u l t – e d u c a t i o n course i n c o m p o s i t i o n at Paducah C o m m u n i t y College.
She spends her evenings o u t l i n i n g paragraphs.
“First you have a topic sentence,” she explains to Leroy. ” T h e n you divide
it u p . Your secondary topic has to be c o n n e c t e d to your p r i m a r y topic.
To Leroy, this sounds i n t i m i d a t i n g . ” I never was any good i n E n g l i s h , ‘ he
says.
” I t makes a lot o f sense.”
” W h a t are you d o i n g this for, anyhow?”
•AVr-iM
w.
SHILOH
/
965
She shrugs. “It’s s o m e t h i n g to do.” She stands up and lifts her dumbbells
a few times.
-J ” D r i v i n g a r i g , nobody cared a b o u t m y E n g l i s h . ”
” I ‘ m not c r i t i c i z i n g y o u r E n g l i s h . ”
n y -.T i – i ! ‘ ”
N o r m a Jean used to say, ” I f I lose ten m i n u t e s ‘ sleep, I j u s t drag a l l day.”
N o w she stays u p late, w r i t i n g c o m p o s i t i o n s . She got a B o n her first
paper—a how-to theme o n soup-based casseroles. Recently N o r m a Jean has
been c o o k i n g u n u s u a l foods—tacos, lasagna, Bombay c h i c k e n . She doesn’t
play the organ anymore, t h o u g h her second paper was called ” W h y M u s i c
Is I m p o r t a n t to M e . ” She sits at the k i t c h e n table, concentrating o n her outlines, w h i l e Leroy plays w i t h his log house plans, p r a c t i c i n g w i t h a set o f
L i n c o l n Logs. T h e t h o u g h t o f getting a t r u c k l o a d o f notched, n u m b e r e d logs
scares h i m , and he wants to be prepared. As he and N o r m a Jean w o r k together at the k i t c h e n table, Leroy has the hopeful t h o u g h t that they are
sharing s o m e t h i n g , but he knows he is a fool to t h i n k this. N o r m a Jean is
miles away. He knows he is g o i n g to lose her. L i k e M a b e l , he is j u s t w a i t ing for t i m e to pass.
O n e day, M a b e l is there before N o r m a Jean gets h o m e f r o m w o r k , a n d
Leroy finds h i m s e l f c o n f i d i n g i n her. M a b e l , he realizes, m u s t k n o w N o r m a
Jean better t h a n he does.
“1 don’t k n o w what’s got i n t o that g i r l , ” M a b e l says. “She used to go to bed
w i t h the chickens. N o w you say she’s up a l l hours. Plus her a-smoking. I like
to died.”
;jv . a
“1 w a n t to make her this b e a u t i f u l h o m e , ” L e r o y says, i n d i c a t i n g the L i n c o l n Logs. “1 don’t t h i n k she even wants i t . M a y b e she was happier w i t h me
gone.”
“She don’t k n o w w h a t to make o f y o u , c o m i n g h o m e like t h i s . ”
“Is that it?”
M a b e l takes the r o o f o f f his L i n c o l n L o g c a b i n . “You c o u l d n ‘ t get me i n
a log c a b i n , ” she says. ” I was raised i n one. It’s no p i c n i c , let me tell y o u . ”
“They’re different now,” says Leroy.
” I tell you w h a t , ” M a b e l says, s m i l i n g oddly at Leroy.
“What?”
“Take her o n d o w n to S h i l o h . Y’all need to get o u t together, stir a l i t t l e .
Her brain’s a l l balled up over t h e m books.”
L e r o y c a n see traces o f N o r m a Jean’s features i n her m o t h e r ‘ s face.
Mabel’s w o r n face has the texture o f c r i n k l e d c o t t o n , b u t suddenly she
looks pretty. I t occurs to L e r o y that M a h e l has been h i n t i n g a l l along that
she wants t h e m to take her w i t h t h e m to S h i l o h .
“Let’s all go to S h i l o h , ” he says. “You a n d me a n d her. C o m e Sunday.”
M a b e l tbrows u p her hands i n protest. ” O h , no, not me. Young folks w a n t
to be by theirselves.”
W b e n N o r m a Jean comes i n w i t b groceries, Leroy says excitedly, “Your
mama here’s been d y i n g to go to S h i l o b for thirty-five years. It’s about t i m e
We w e n t , d o n ‘ t you t h i n k ? ”
” I ‘ m n o t g o i n g to b u t t i n o n anybody’s second h o n e y m o o n , ” M a b e l says.
“Who’s g o i n g o n a h o n e y m o o n , for Christ’s sake?” N o r m a l e a n savs
loudly.
‘
“I never raised no daughter o f m i n e to talk that-a-way,” M a b e l says.
966
/
BOBBIE A N N MASON
“You ain’t seen n o t h i n g yet,” says N o r m a Jean. She starts p u t t i n g away
boxes a n d cans, s l a m m i n g cabinet doors.
“There’s a log c a b i n at S h i l o h , ” M a b e l says. ” I t was there d u r i n g t h e battle. There’s huUet holes i n i t . ”
” W h e n are y o u going to shut up about S h i l o h , M a m a ? ” asks N o r m a Jean.
” I always t h o u g h t S h i l o h was the prettiest place, so f u l l o f history,” M a b e l
goes o n . ” I Just hoped y’all c o u l d see i t once before I die, so y o u c o u l d tell
me about i t . ” Later, she whispers to Leroy, “You do w h a t I said. A l i t t l e
change is w h a t she needs.”
“Your name means ‘the king,’ ” N o r m a Jean says to Leroy that evening. H e
is t r y i n g to get h e r to go to S h i l o h , a n d she is reading a b o o k about another
century.
” W e l l , I r e c k o n I o u g h t t o be r i g h t p r o u d . ”
1(T
t*
1 guess so.
” A m I still k i n g a r o u n d here?”
N o r m a Jean flexes her biceps a n d feels t h e m for hardness. ” I ‘ m n o t fooli n g a r o u n d w i t h anybody, i f that’s w h a t y o u mean,” she says.
” W o u l d y o u tell m e i f y o u were?”
” I don’t k n o w . ”
.?.-H>i> or! rii
” W h a t does your name mean?”
ledt bin
• ” I t was M a r i l y n Monroe’s real name.” ‘
“No kidding!”
” N o r m a comes f r o m t h e N o r m a n s . T h e y were invaders,” she says. She
closes her b o o k and looks h a r d at Leroy. ” I ‘ l l go to S h i l o h w i t h y o u i f y o u ‘ l l
stop staring at me.”
O n Sunday, N o r m a Jean packs a p i c n i c a n d they go to S h i l o h . To Leroy’s
relief, M a b e l says she does n o t w a n t to come w i t h t h e m . N o r m a Jean d r i ves, a n d Leroy, s i t t i n g beside her, feels like some b o r i n g h i t c h h i k e r she has
p i c k e d up. H e tries some conversation, b u t she answers h i m i n monosyllables. A t S h i l o h , she drives aimlessly t h r o u g h t h e park, past bluffs a n d trails
and steep ravines. S h i l o h is a n i m m e n s e place, a n d Leroy c a n n o t see i t as
a b a t t l e g r o u n d . I t is n o t w h a t he expected. H e t h o u g h t i t w o u l d look like a
golf course. M o n u m e n t s are everywhere, s h o w i n g t h r o u g h t h e t h i c k clusters o f trees. N o r m a Jean passes t h e log c a b i n M a b e l m e n t i o n e d . I t is surr o u n d e d by tourists l o o k i n g for b u l l e t holes.
“That’s not the k i n d o f log house I’ve got i n m i n d , ” says Leroy apologetically.
” I k n o w that.”
“This is a p r e t t y place. Your m a m a was r i g h t . ”
“It’s O . K . , ” says N o r m a Jean. ” W e l l , we’ve seen i t . I hope she’s satisfied.”
. . T h e y burst o u t l a u g h i n g together.
A t the park m u s e u m , a movie o n S h i l o h is shown every half hour, b u t they
decide t h a t they don’t w a n t to see i t . T h e y buy a souvenir Confederate flag
for M a b e l , a n d t h e n they f i n d a p i c n i c spot near t h e cemetery. N o r m a Jean
has b r o u g h t a p i c n i c cooler, w i t h p i m i e n t o sandwiches, soft d r i n k s , and Yodels.’ Leroy eats a s a n d w i c h a n d t h e n smokes a j o i n t , h i d i n g i t b e h i n d t h e
5. Snack cakes.
SHILOH
/
967
p i c n i c cooler. N o r m a Jean has q u i t s m o k i n g altogether. She is p i c k i n g cake
c r u m b s from t h e cellophane wrapper, like a fussy b i r d .
Leroy says, “So t b e boys i n gray ended u p i n C o r i n t h . T h e U n i o n soldiers
zapped ’em finally. A p r i l 7, 1862.”
T h e y b o t h k n o w that he doesn’t k n o w any history. H e is j u s t t a l k i n g about
some o f the h i s t o r i c a l plaques they have read. H e feels a w k w a r d , like a boy
o n a date w i t h an older g i r l . T h e y are still j u s t m a k i n g conversation.
” C o r i n t h is where M a m a eloped t o , ” says N o r m a Jean.
T h e y sit i n silence a n d stare at t h e cemetery for t h e U n i o n dead and, bey o n d , at a t a l l cluster o f trees. C a m p e r s are p a r k e d nearby, b u m p e r t o
bumper, a n d small c h i l d r e n i n b r i g h t c l o t h i n g are c a v o r t i n g a n d squealing.
N o r m a Jean wads u p t h e cake wrapper a n d squeezes i t t i g h t l y i n h e r h a n d .
W i t h o u t l o o k i n g at Leroy, she says, “1 w a n t to leave y o u . ”
Leroy takes a bottle o f Coke o u t o f t h e cooler a n d flips o f f t h e cap. H e
holds t h e b o t t l e poised near his m o u t h b u t c a n n o t r e m e m b e r t o take a
d r i n k . F i n a l l y he says, ” N o , you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
” I won’t let you.”
“You can’t stop me.”
” D o n ‘ t do m e tha t way.”
Leroy knows N o r m a Jean w i l l have her o w n way. ” D i d n ‘ t 1 promise to be
h o m e f r o m n o w on? ” he says.
” I n some ways, a w o m a n prefers a m a n w h o wanders,” says N o r m a Jean.
“That sounds crazy, I know.”
“You’re n o t crazy.”
‘* ”
”
Leroy remembers to d r i n k f r o m his C o k e . T h e n he says, “Yes, y o u are
crazy. You a n d m e c o u l d start a l l over again. R i g h t back at t h e b e g i n n i n g . ”
“We have started a l l over again,” says N o r m a Jean. ” A n d this is h o w i t
turned out.”
,
,
.
,
” W h a t d i d I do wrong?”
“Nothing.”
—•:~:^-T:~:”Is this one o f those women’s l i b things?” Leroy asks.
,i •
•
” D o n ‘ t be funny.”
T h e cemetery, a green slope d o t t e d w i t h w h i t e markers, looks like a
s u b d i v i s i o n site. Leroy is t r y i n g t o c o m p r e h e n d t h a t his marriage is breaki n g u p , b u t f o r some reason he is w o n d e r i n g a b o u t w h i t e slabs i n a graveyard.
” E v e r y t h i n g was fine t i l l M a m a caught m e s m o k i n g , ” says N o r m a Jean,
standing u p . “That set s o m e t h i n g off.”
” W h a t are y o u t a l k i n g about?”
“She w o n ‘ t leave m e alone—you w o n ‘ t leave m e alone.” N o r m a Jean
seems to be crying, b u t she is looking away f r o m h i m . ” I feel eighteen again.
I can’t face that a l l over again.” She starts w a l k i n g away. ” N o , i t wasn’t fine.
I don’t k n o w w h a t I ‘ m saying. Forget i t . ”
Leroy takes a l u n g f u l o f smoke and closes his eyes as N o r m a Jean’s words
sink i n . H e tries to focus o n t h e fact that thirty-five h u n d r e d soldiers d i e d
on t h e grounds a r o u n d h i m . H e c a n only t h i n k o f tha t war as a board game
w i t h plastic soldiers. Leroy almost smiles, as he compares t h e Confederates’
d a r i n g attack o n t h e U n i o n camps a n d V i r g i l Mathis’s r a i d o n t h e b o w l i n g
968
/
DAVE SMITH
>
ip
alley. G e n e r a l Grant,* d r u n k a n d f u r i o u s , shoved the Southerners back to
C o r i n t h , w h e r e M a b e l a n d Jet Beasley were m a r r i e d years later, w h e n
M a b e l was still t h i n and g o o d – l o o k i n g . T h e next day, M a b e l a n d Jet visited
the b a t t l e g r o u n d , and t h e n N o r m a Jean was b o r n , a n d t h e n she m a r r i e d
Leroy and they had a baby, w h i c h they lost, and n o w L e r o y and N o r m a Jean
are here at the same b a t t l e g r o u n d . Leroy k n o w s he is leaving o u t a l o t . H e
is leaving o u t the insides o f history. H i s t o r y was always Just names a n d
dates to h i m . I t occurs to h i m t h a t b u i l d i n g a house o u t o f logs is s i m i l a r l y
e m p t y — t o o simple. A n d the real i n n e r w o r k i n g s o f a marriage, like most o f
history, have escaped h i m . N o w he sees t h a t b u i l d i n g a l o g house is t h e
d u m b e s t idea he c o u l d have had. I t was c l u m s y o f h i m to t h i n k N o r m a
Jean w o u l d w a n t a l o g house. I t was a crazy idea. H e ‘ l l have t o t h i n k o f
s o m e t h i n g else, quickly. H e w i l l wad the b l u e p r i n t s i n t o t i g h t balls and f l i n g
t h e m i n t o the lake. T h e n he’ll get m o v i n g again. H e opens his eyes. N o r m a
Jean has moved away and is w a l k i n g t h r o u g h the cemetery, f o l l o w i n g a serpentine brick path.
Leroy gets u p to f o l l o w his wife, b u t his good leg is asleep a n d his bad leg
still h u r t s h i m . N o r m a Jean is far away, w a l k i n g r a p i d l y t o w a r d t h e b l u f f by
the river, and he tries t o hobble t o w a r d her. Some c h i l d r e n r u n past h i m ,
screaming noisily. N o r m a Jean has reached the bluff, and she is l o o k i n g o u t
over the Tennessee River. N o w she t u r n s t o w a r d Leroy and waves her arms.
Is she b e c k o n i n g to him? She seems to be d o i n g an exercise for her chest
muscles. T h e sky is u n u s u a l l y p a l e — t h e c o l o r o f the dust ruffle M a b e l
made f o r t h e i r bed.
i i h” v M T I I . S V ; . i U , – “.cLwor
|
6. Ulysses S. Grant (1822-1885), commander of the victorious Union Army during the battle of Shiloh.
i
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BLUEJAYS
/
969
grateful for my family. 1 don’t know who to be grateful to, but tbat seems to me to
be what part of tbe act of writing a poem is all about, at least testimony of witness
to tbe goodness of existence.”
Smith’s poetic writings emerge from a tangle of geographies (coastal Virginia, inland Maryland, Wyoming and Utah, upstate New York, and Pennsylvania). In this
respect, as Corrinne Hales points out, bis work “can certainly be seen as ‘regional,’
not in tbe sense tbat its vision is limited in any way to a specific time and place, but
in tbe more complicated sense tbat one of its main subjects of exploration is tbe concept of regionalism itself, witb all of its familiar implications and inherent contradictions.” Influenced by tbe poetry of James Dickey and Robert Penn Warren, Smith
is as agile in bis movements in time and be is in space. Poems such as Goshawk, Antelope and Smithfield Ham travel tbe vexed distances between past and present: tbe
goshawk becomes the accusing face of tbe speaker’s father; tbe delicious Smithfield
bam carries “tbat thirst tbat wants / to bust a person open late at night.” Witb
Smith, one feels moved by tbe beauty and danger of living and by bow those dualities are always being both mobilized and traversed.
David Jeddie Smith was born into a working-class family in Portsmouth, Virginia, on December 19, 1942. His father, Ralph (“Jeddie”) was a naval engineer, and
bis mother Catherine Mary (“Kitty”) Cornwell worked at various times as a telephone operator and secretary. Smith grew up bunting witb bis grandfather and
working witb bis father on sports cars, which, be writes, became “a means to discover manhood, time, and distance.” Wben Smith was seventeen, tbe stability of bis
family was shattered wben an automobile accident killed bis father and seriously injured bis mother. After be went to tbe University of Virginia, bis mother, who bad
since remarried, sold tbe family bome without telling bim and moved to Florida, so
tbat wben be came bome for Christmas, strangers answered tbe door at what bad
previously been bis bouse. After graduating in 1 9 6 5 , be was a high school teacher
and coach in tbe fishing village of Poquoson, Virginia, from which much of bis
early material is taken. He later went on to earn a master’s degree at Southern Illinois University and, by tbe time be completed a doctorate at Ohio University, bis
poetry bad been published in literary journals, two cbapbooks, and bis first major
collection, TTie Fisherman’s Whore ( 1 9 7 4 ) . His second, Gumberland Station ( 1 9 7 6 ) ,
was in press.
Smith has become one of America’s most prolific writers and has held academic
appointments tbrougbout tbe country, including tbe University of Utah, SUNYBingbamton, Virginia Commonwealth University, and tbe University of Florida. In
1990 be took an appointment at Louisiana State University, where be is co-editor
of tbe Southern Review. In addition to thirteen major books of poetry. Smith has
written a novel, Onliness ( 1 9 8 1 ) , and a collection of short fiction. Southern Delights:
Foems and Stories ( 1 9 8 4 ) . He has edited collections of essays on James Wright and
Ldgar Allan Poe and held fellowships from tbe National Endowment for tbe Arts and
the Guggenheim Foundation. His books of poetry Goshawk, Antelope ( 1 9 7 9 ) and
Dream Flights ( 1 9 8 1 ) were both runners-up for tbe Pulitzer Prize.
Arm.
Bluejays
She tries to call them down,
quicknesses of air.
They bitch and scorn,
they roost away from her.
ALICE WALKER [b. 1944]
Everyday Use
For Your Grandmama
I will wait for her in the yard that Maggie and I made so clean and wavy yesterday afternoon. A yard like
this is more comfortable than most people know. It is not just a yard. It is like an extended living room. When
the hard clay is swept clean as a floor and the fine sand around the edges lined with tiny, irregular grooves,
anyone can come and sit and look up into the elm tree and wait for the breezes that never come inside the
house.
Maggie will be nervous until after her sister goes: she will stand hopelessly in corners, homely and ashamed
of the burn scars down her arms and legs, eying her sister with a mixture of envy and awe. She thinks her
sister has held life always in the palm of one hand, that “no” is a word the world never learned to say to her.
You’ve no doubt seen those TV shows where the child who has “made it” is confronted, as a surprise, by her
own mother and father, tottering inweakly from backstage. (A pleasant surprise, of course: What would they
do if parent and child came on the show only to curse out and insult each other?) On TV mother and child
embrace and smile into each other’s faces. Sometimes the mother and father weep, the child wraps them in
her arms and leans across the table to tell how she would not have made it without their help. I have seen
these programs.
Sometimes I dream a dream in which Dee and I are suddenly brought together on a TV program of this
sort. Out of a dark and soft-seated limousine I am ushered into a bright room filled with many people. There
I meet a smiling, gray, sporty man like Johnny Carson ° who shakes my hand and tells me what a fine girl I
have. Then we are on the stage and Dee is embracing me with tears in her eyes. She pins on my dress a large
orchid, even though she has told me once that she thinks orchids are tacky flowers.
Johnny Carson (1925–2005):
Late-night talk-show host and comedian. The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson was on the air from 1962 to
1992.
In real life I am a large, big-boned woman with rough, man-working hands. In the winter I wear flannel
nightgowns to bed and overalls during the day. I can kill and clean a hog as mercilessly as a man. My fat
keeps me hot in zero weather. I can work outside all day, breaking ice to get water for washing; I can eat
pork liver cooked over the open fire minutes after it comes steaming from the hog. One winter I knocked a
bull calf straight in the brain between the eyes with a sledge hammer and had the meat hung up to chill before
nightfall. But of course all this does not show on television. I am the way my daughter would want me to be:
a hundred pounds lighter, my skin like an uncooked barley pancake. My hair glistens in the hot bright lights.
Johnny Carson has much to do to keep up with my quick and witty tongue.
But that is a mistake. I know even before I wake up. Who ever knew a Johnson with a quick tongue? Who
can even imagine me looking a strange white man in the eye? It seems to me I have talked to them always
with one foot raised in flight, with my head turned in whichever way is farthest from them. Dee, though. She
would always look anyone in the eye. Hesitation was no part of her nature.
“How do I look, Mama?” Maggie says, showing just enough of her thin body enveloped in pink skirt and red
blouse for me to know she’s there, almost hidden by the door.
“Come out into the yard,” I say.
Have you ever seen a lame animal, perhaps a dog run over by some careless person rich enough to own a
car, sidle up to someone who is ignorant enough to be kind to him? That is the way my Maggie walks. She
has been like this, chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in shuffle, ever since the fire that burned the other
house to the ground.
Dee is lighter than Maggie, with nicer hair and a fuller figure. She’s a woman now, though sometimes I
forget. How long ago was it that the other house burned? Ten, twelve years? Sometimes I can still hear the
flames and feel Maggie’s arms sticking to me, her hair smoking and her dress falling off her in little black
papery flakes. Her eyes seemed stretched open, blazed open by the flames reflected in them. And Dee. I see
her standing off under the sweet gum tree she used to dig gum out of; a look of concentration on her face as
she watched the last dingy gray board of the house fall in toward the red-hot brick chimney. Why don’t you
do a dance around the ashes? I’d want to ask her. She had hated the house that much.
I used to think she hated Maggie, too. But that was before we raised the money, the church and me, to send
her to Augusta to school. She used to read to us without pity; forcing words, lies, other folks’ habits, whole
lives upon us two, sitting trapped and ignorant underneath her voice. She washed us in a river of makebelieve, burned us with a lot of knowledge we didn’t necessarily need to know. Pressed us to her with the
serious way she read, to shove us away at just the moment, like dimwits, we seemed about to understand.
Dee wanted nice things. A yellow organdy dress to wear to her graduation from high school; black pumps
to match a green suit she’d made from an old suit somebody gave me. She was determined to stare down any
disaster in her efforts. Her eyelids would not flicker for minutes at a time. Often I fought off the temptation
to shake her. At sixteen she had a style of her own: and knew what style was.
I never had an education myself. After second grade the school was closed down. Don’t ask me why: in 1927
colored asked fewer questions than they do now. Sometimes Maggie reads to me. She stumbles along goodnaturedly but can’t see well. She knows she is not bright. Like good looks and money, quickness passed her
by. She will marry John Thomas (who has mossy teeth in an earnest face) and then I’ll be free to sit here and
I guess just sing church songs to myself. Although I never was a good singer. Never could carry a tune. I was
always better at a man’s job. I used to love to milk till I was hooked in the side in ’49. Cows are soothing and
slow and don’t bother you, unless you try to milk them the wrong way.
I have deliberately turned my back on the house. It is three rooms, just like the one that burned, except the
roof is tin; they don’t make shingle roofs any more. There are no real windows, just some holes cut in the
sides, like the portholes in a ship, but not round and not square, with rawhide holding the shutters up on the
outside. This house is in a pasture, too, like the other one. No doubt when Dee sees it she will want to tear it
down. She wrote me once that no matter where we “choose” to live, she will manage to come see us. But she
will never bring her friends. Maggie and I thought about this and Maggie asked me, “Mama, when did Dee
ever have any friends?”
She had a few. Furtive boys in pink shirts hanging about on wash-day after school. Nervous girls who
never laughed. Impressed with her they worshipped the well-turned phrase, the cute shape, the scalding
humor that erupted like bubbles in lye. She read to them.
When she was courting Jimmy T she didn’t have much time to pay to us, but turned all her faultfinding
power on him. He flew to marry a cheap city girl from a family of ignorant flashy people. She hardly had
time to recompose herself.
When she comes I will meet — but there they are!
Maggie attempts to make a dash for the house, in her shuffling way, but I stay her with my hand. “Come
back here,” I say. And she stops and tries to dig a well in the sand with her toe.
It is hard to see them clearly through the strong sun. But even the first glimpse of leg out of the car tells
me it is Dee. Her feet were always neat-looking, as if God himself had shaped them with a certain style. From
the other side of the car comes a short, stocky man. Hair is all over his head a foot long and hanging from his
chin like a kinky mule tail. I hear Maggie suck in her breath. “Uhnnnh,” is what it sounds like. Like when
you see the wriggling end of a snake just in front of your foot on the road. “Uhnnnh.”
Dee next. A dress down to the ground, in this hot weather. A dress so loud it hurts my eyes. There are
yellows and oranges enough to throw back the light of the sun. I feel my whole face warming from the heat
waves it throws out. Earrings gold, too, and hanging down to her shoulders. Bracelets dangling and making
noises when she moves her arm up to shake the folds of the dress out of her armpits. The dress is loose and
flows, and as she walks closer, I like it. I hear Maggie go “Uhnnnh” again. It is her sister’s hair. It stands
straight up like the wool on a sheep. It is black as night and around the edges are two long pigtails that rope
about like small lizards disappearing behind her ears.
“Wa-su-zo-Tean-o!” she says, coming on in that gliding way the dress makes her move. The short stocky
fellow with the hair to his navel is all grinning and he follows up with “Asalamalakim, my mother and sister!”
He moves to hug Maggie but she falls back, right up against the back of my chair. I feel her trembling there
and when I look up I see the perspiration falling off her chin.
“Don’t get up,” says Dee. Since I am stout it takes something of a push. You can see me trying to move a
second or two before I make it. She turns, showing white heels through her sandals, and goes back to the car.
Out she peeks next with a Polaroid. She stoops down quickly and lines up picture after picture of me sitting
there in front of the house with Maggie cowering behind me. She never takes a shot without making sure the
house is included. When a cow comes nibbling around the edge of the yard she snaps it and me and
Maggie and the house. Then she puts the Polaroid in the back seat of the car, and comes up and kisses me on
the forehead.
Meanwhile Asalamalakim is going through motions with Magg ie’s hand. Maggie’s hand is as limp as a
fish, and probably as cold, despite the sweat, and she keeps trying to pull it back. It looks like Asalamalakim
wants to shake hands but wants to do it fancy. Or maybe he don’t know how people shake hands. Anyhow,
he soon gives up on Maggie.
“Well,” I say. “Dee.”
“No, Mama,” she says. “Not ‘Dee,’ Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo!”
“What happened to ‘Dee’?” I wanted to know.
“She’s dead,” Wangero said. “I couldn’t bear it any longer, being named after the people who oppress me.”
“You know as well as me you was named after your aunt Dicie,” I said. Dicie is my sister. She named Dee.
We called her “Big Dee” after Dee was born.
“But who was she named after?” asked Wangero.
“I guess after Grandma Dee,” I said.
“And who was she named after?” asked Wangero.
“Her mother,” I said, and saw Wangero was getting tired. “That’s about as far back as I can trace it,” I said.
Though, in fact, I probably could have carried it back beyond the Civil War through the branches.
“Well,” said Asalamalakim, “there you are.”
“Uhnnnh,” I heard Maggie say.
“There I was not,” I said, “before ‘Dicie’ cropped up in our family, so why should I try to trace it that far
back?”
He just stood there grinning, looking down on me like somebody inspecting a Model A car. Every once in
a while he and Wangero sent eye signals over my head.
“How do you pronounce this name?” I asked.
“You don’t have to call me by it if you don’t want to,” said Wangero.
“Why shouldn’t I?” I asked. “If that’s what you want us to call you, we’ll call you.”
“I know it might sound awkward at first,” said Wangero.
“I’ll get used to it,” I said. “Ream it out again.”
Well, soon we got the name out of the way. Asalamalakim had a name twice as long and three times as
hard. After I tripped over it two or three times he told me to just call him Hakim-a-barber. I wanted to ask
him was he a barber, but I didn’t really think he was, so I didn’t ask.
“You must belong to those beef-cattle peoples down the road,” I said. They said “Asalamalakim” when
they met you, too, but they didn’t shake hands. Always too busy: feeding the cattle, fixing the fences, putting
up salt-lick shelters, throwing down hay. When the white folks poisoned some of the herd the men stayed up
all night with rifles in their hands. I walked a mile and a half just to see the sight.
Hakim-a-barber said, “I accept some of their doctrines, but farming and raising cattle is not my style.”
(They didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask, whether Wangero (Dee) had really gone and married him.)
We sat down to eat and right away he said he didn’t eat collards and pork was unclean. Wangero, though,
went on through the chitlins and corn bread, the greens and everything else. She talked a blue streak over the
sweet potatoes. Everything delighted her. Even the fact that we still used the benches her daddy made for the
table when we couldn’t afford to buy chairs.
“Oh, Mama!” she cried. Then turned to Hakim-a-barber. “I never knew how lovely these benches are. You
can feel the rump prints,” she said, running her hands underneath her and long the bench. Then she gave a
sigh and her hand closed over Grandma Dee’s butter dish. “That’s it!” she said. “I knew there was something
I wanted to ask you if I could have.” She jumped up from the table and went over in the corner where the
churn stood, the milk in it clabber by now. She looked at the churn and looked at it.
“This churn top is what I need,” she said. “Didn’t Uncle Buddy whittle it out of a tree you all used to
have?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Uh huh,” she said happily. “And I want the dasher, too.”
“Uncle Buddy whittle that, too?” asked the barber.
Dee (Wangero) looked up at me.
“Aunt Dee’s first husband whittled the dash,” said Maggie so low you almost couldn’t hear her. “His name
was Henry, but they called him Stash.”
“Maggie’s brain is like an elephant’s,” Wangero said, laughing. “I can use the churn top as a centerpiece
for the alcove table,” she said, sliding a plate over the churn, “and I’ll think of something artistic to do with
the dasher.”
When she finished wrapping the dasher the handle stuck out. I took it for a moment in my hands. You
didn’t even have to look close to see where hands pushing the dasher up and down to make butter had left a
kind of sink in the wood. In fact, there were a lot of small sinks; you could see where thumbs and fingers had
sunk into the wood. It was beautiful light yellow wood, from a tree that grew in the yard where Big Dee and
Stash had lived.
After dinner Dee (Wangero) went to the trunk at the foot of my bed and started rifling through it. Maggie
hung back in the kitchen over the dishpan. Out came Wangero with two quilts. They had been pieced by
Grandma Dee and then Big Dee and me had hung them on the quilt frames on the front porch and quilted
them. One was in the Lone Star pattern. The other was Walk Around the Mountain. In both of them were
scraps of dresses
Grandma Dee had worn fifty and more years ago. Bits and pieces of Grandpa Jarrell’s Paisley shirts. And
one teeny faded blue piece, about the size of a penny matchbox, that was from Great Grandpa Ezra’s uniform
that he wore in the Civil War.
“Mama,” Wangero said sweet as a bird. “Can I have these old quilts?”
I heard something fall in the kitchen, and a minute later the kitchen door slammed.
“Why don’t you take one or two of the others?” I asked. “These old things was just done by me and Big
Dee from some tops your grandma pieced before she died.”
“No,” said Wangero. “I don’t want those. They are stitched around the borders by machine.”
“That’ll make them last better,” I said.
“That’s not the point,” said Wangero. “These are all pieces of dresses Grandma used to wear. She did all
this stitching by hand. Imagine!” She held the quilts securely in her arms, stroking them.
“Some of the pieces, like those lavender ones, come from old clothes her mother handed down to her,” I
said, moving up to touch the quilts. Dee (Wangero) moved back just enough so that I couldn’t reach the
quilts. They already belonged to her.
“Imagine!” she breathed again, clutching them closely to her bosom.
“The truth is,” I said, “I promised to give them quilts to Maggie, for when she marries John Thomas.”
She gasped like a bee had stung her.
“Maggie can’t appreciate these quilts!” she said. “She’d probably be backward enough to put them to
everyday use.”
“I reckon she would,” I said. “God knows I been saving ’em for long enough with nobody using ’em. I
hope she will!” I didn’t want to bring up how I had offered Dee (Wangero) a quilt when she went away to
college. Then she had told me they were old-fashioned, out of style.
“But they’re priceless !” she was saying now, furiously; for she has a temper. “Maggie would put them on
the bed and in five years they’d be in rags. Less than that!”
“She can always make some more,” I said. “Maggie knows how to quilt.”
Dee (Wangero) looked at me with hatred. “You just will not understand. The point is these
quilts, these quilts!”
“Well,” I said, stumped. “What would you do with them?”
“Hang them,” she said. As if that was the only thing you could do with quilts.
Maggie by now was standing in the door. I could almost hear the sound her feet made as they scraped over
each other.
“She can have them, Mama,” she said, like somebody used to never winning anything, or having anything
reserved for her. “I can ’member Grandma Dee without the quilts.”
I looked at her hard. She had filled her bottom lip with checkerberry snuff and it gave her face a kind of
dopey, hangdog look. It was Grandma Dee and Big Dee who taught her how to quilt herself. She stood there
with her scarred hands hidden in the folds of her skirt. She looked at her sister with something like fear but
she wasn’t mad at her. This was Maggie’s portion. This was the way she knew God to work.
When I looked at her like that something hit me in the top of my head and ran down to the soles of my feet.
Just like when I’m in church and the spirit of God touches me and I get happy and shout. I did something I
never had done before: hugged Maggie to me, then dragged her on into the room, snatched the quilts out of
Miss Wangero’s hands and dumped them into Maggie’s lap. Maggie just sat there on my bed with her mouth
open.
“Take one or two of the others,” I said to Dee.
But she turned without a word and went out to Hakim-a-barber.
“You just don’t understand,” she said, as Maggie and I came out to the car.
“What don’t I understand?” I wanted to know.
“Your heritage,” she said. And then she turned to Maggie, kissed her, and said, “You ought to try to make
something of yourself, too, Maggie. It’s really a new day for us. But from the way you and Mama still live
you’d never know it.”
She put on some sunglasses that hid everything above the tip of her nose and her chin.
Maggie smiled; maybe at the sunglasses. But a real smile, not scared. After we watched the car dust settle
I asked Maggie to bring me a dip of snuff. And then the two of us sat there just enjoying, until it was time to
go in the house and go to bed.
[1973]
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