Gone Crazy in Alabama

I pressed and I prayed. It was only right that pressing went with prayer. That and being sorry. Every wrinkle was a patch of sorry to be smoothed and flattened.

I did what my sister asked. I let her go to the door while I stayed back. But I was there. That was all my sisters needed to know. I’d be there. Always.

Vonetta huffed and puffed and I wanted to say something but I kept my mouth shut and tried to walk through the storm. ... “Fern and I cheered! We cheered and Vonetta said, “Let’s not make a federal case out of it.” Then she paused. “Just come with me.

I kept thinking about my mother and what she wrote to me. If Cecile could keep her craziness inside of her and walk into a place where she wasn’t welcomed by everyone, and see Pa with the woman he married and their baby on the way, then I could keep a lid on it where Vonetta was concerned.

I cleared my throat in dramatic Vonetta fashion, hoping to get a smile out of her. Then I read.

Between Mr. and Mrs. Lucas, the Trotter sisters, cousin JT, and Uncle D, we must have made at least three rounds of hugs, “Yawl be careful,” and “See you real soon,” with the Lord’s blessing added for good measure. Mrs. called it the “Southern good-bye” because it went on and on and on and there was nothing like it in New York. “People just aren’t that way,” she said.

Big Ma said, “I don’t know why we have to make a grand Negro spectacle out of everything. I’ll get my hat.

Mr. Lucas didn’t move. He knew to wait for the other shoe to drop. “Yes, Ma.” “But as long as I have an unmarried daughter under this very roof you rebuilt, your place is out here with the rest of us. When you’re married you can always go in the kitchen or down the hall to see about your wife.” Mr. Lucas sat down.

Listen here, son,” she told Mr. Lucas, who was instantly cowed. “Only two people can tell this woman what to do: her ma and her husband. Unless you’re her husband you can’t tell her a thing.

If you call broken bones ‘safe,’” Miss Trotter added, “then let us be grateful.

Her face was covered in scabs, but I looked in her eyes and tried to hide the shock of seeing her face scratched up so badly.

I had to be awake when Vonetta walked through the door. I had to tell her I was sorry.

Thought I smelled some oppression burning.” JimmyTrotter snuck up on me. His oppression began with a long vowel “o.” O-ppression. “White sheets?” I could feel the smirk. There he was, grinning at me. Even that felt good because that was the JimmyTrotter I knew. “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t let me stop you from oppressing.” “Very funny.

If ironing stiff white cloth in the heat hadn’t killed anyone who’d held the handles and pressed and prayed, then I could do what they’d done. I could iron until the cotton sheet was smooth.

... if you prayed for the miracle you’d sell your most treasured possession for, you don’t care about anything else but waiting on that miracle. I knew I had a piece of the South in me but I didn’t know it was that much.

Cecile liked the quiet. It was one thing I remembered from being little and sitting with her in our house on Herkimer Street. The quiet kept her calm.

Enough people in the world trying to silence us. Girl, you better speak up.

But she shrugged like it was nothing, and my mother didn’t like owing anyone anything.

... next to Mr. Lucas, who sat next to an empty seat that he patted each time Big Ma entered carrying a platter. Big Ma refused her seat next to him each time. Finally, Big Ma stopped muttering and spoke her mind. “I won’t sit at that table and I won’t ask the Lord to bless it. No, sir. Surely won’t.

I helped Big Ma make breakfast while she muttered angry words about my mother being in the house she was born in and how her own mother called Cecile “daughter” and took Cecile’s side over hers. I don’t know how Uncle Darnell got my mother back in the house, talking to Big Ma, and then sitting at the table, but there she was, ready to eat and unbothered by Big Ma, who was still muttering and serving.

I was only looking out for you,” I began. “Well, don’t, Delphine. I can look out for myself.” She clunked her turtle head, a hard “Surely can.” Fern was the baby I saw coming out of Cecile on the kitchen floor. She clung to me and hid behind me practically every day after that. I didn’t believe Fern could look out for herself without me but I still said, “Okay.

And Miss Trotter said, “I tell you, I don’t miss the picture shows or television at all. Not at all.

This is my house. My house,” Ma Charles said. She turned to Big Ma. “Ophelia Fern Charles Gaither, don’t shame me.” My mother’s face turned a shade darker when Ma Charles said all of Big Ma’s names. In that moment, as I heard it myself for the first time, I knew it was partly true: My mother had left us eight years ago when my father said she had to name my baby sister Fern.

I figured he’d stop talking to me like everyone else. And then Papa would be here and it would get worse before it got better. And it might never get better.

I told him I was sorry about his model planes when I wasn’t. A model plane wasn’t a sister, but JimmyTrotter was the only one speaking to me. And he had lost a brother, a mother, a father, and a grandmother. All at once. He knew.

I only had time enough to grab Miss Trotter and the picture. Had to get the picture. She wouldn’t move without her mama and papa.” “Onchee,” I said. “Onchee is right.

I was right there but on the outside. It didn’t seem real. My mother, wild-eyed and tired, suddenly here. Close enough to touch, although she didn’t reach out to me or let me touch her. ... When I thought I had the right to hate her, she was there. Right there. But not for me to touch.

Yes, ma’am.” It slipped out. I knew right there my mother hated the South in me. She cut me up with her glare.

I wanted to hug my mother but she didn’t open herself to let me. So I stayed where I was.