“Sorry,” I said. “I’m listening.”
I felt guilty, hearing the frustration in his voice, and started taking notes from the board as he returned to his lecture. We had an agreement, my teachers and me. I would not draw in class as long as I could access all the art classes Memphis had to offer a junior. What my school lacked in art supplies, I made up for in other ways, drawing on whatever I could—scratch paper, the back of exams—sifting through Memphis five-and-dimes with Mya, searching for brushes. My teachers knew I had a gift. Knew Douglass could not provide for this gift. So I was now enrolled in my first AP course—Art. I took the class on Saturdays, at the Rhodes College campus. Auntie August took me, since Mom was always working or studying. We’d drive our family’s classic Coupe de Ville up North Parkway to the stone fortress that was Rhodes. I loved those rides. Auntie August would sing along to the radio, the pride on her face hard to conceal.
Today was only Tuesday, which meant another four whole days before I’d get to go again, feel the relief that being in a functional art room brought me. Douglass High simply did not have the facilities for the kind of art study I craved. I needed easels the length of rooms, canvases as big as men. I needed nude models of every race and gender and shape and size. Oils were expensive, and I wanted a rainbow’s worth of them. A set of ten colors could run up to fifty dollars or more. And the brushes I needed were made from the tails of an unbroken pinto. My passion was not a cheap one.
A man named Professor Mason had been the broker of my art deal. A rather eccentric, tiny bald Black man the color of a camel, he’d slowly become a mentor to me. “What the hell are we doing if we’re not letting someone with this talent into college classes, high school student or not?” I’d overheard him saying to a Rhodes admissions officer. And that was that. I was in.
I had never felt so respected. Even though these were college kids, and most of them white, and I was only sixteen, we all addressed each other as “Mr.” or “Ms.” And they offered helpful critiques and criticism of my work. “Try this brush” or “Have you tried etching? It may give you more freedom than you thought” or “You’ve got a knack for watercolors, Ms. North.” The long hours I had spent working alongside fellow serious artists had garnered me enough respect to be allowed to choose the radio station while we all worked.
I chose the Cubs game. Each and every time.
Professor Mason had had enough one day. He stamped his cane down in a fury, went to a closet, and brought forth headphones, forced them in my face. “Use these.”
“But Zambrano is pitching!”
His look was something fierce. I took the headphones.
And now, it seemed like U.S. History class was crawling by. I tried to focus on Mr. Harrison’s lecture, but the maple leaf glittering in the sunlight vied for my attention, making me wish for the thousandth time that I could just be free to draw all day long.
I thought back to August, to one of our early morning Saturday drives to Rhodes. Auntie August had been singing along to Anita Baker’s “Caught Up in the Rapture of Love,” her voice more powerful, lovelier than even Anita’s, reaching high notes and adding vibratos in places only a savant could.
I love you here by me, baby. You let my love fly free.
“Auntie, how come you don’t love the Lord?” I’d asked. I couldn’t understand it. Auntie August never attended Sunday Mass with us. Instead, sleeping in and fixing Mama and Mya and me a large breakfast when we returned, famished. And though I would’ve loved to sleep in, just one Sunday, I felt it was my duty to go. Whatever ability I had as an artist, I knew I owed it to my Creator. Yes, I practiced at it. Drew everything I saw since I was old enough to hold a pencil. But that was my Catholic duty: to exercise this gift. As painful at times as that could be. I popped my joints in my hands, fearing already that arthritis would be a constant foe. It took me a year to master fingertips, another to master the veins in the hands. Shading them. Making them look real—like Miss Dawn’s hands were there for the shaking—took me another year.
Auntie August had stopped singing and let out a laugh. “Philosopher Joan, you sure do know how to ruin the mood.” She concentrated on the road, took a graceful left onto the Sam Cooper Boulevard ramp, then said, “What that white man ever do for me? Took my Mama away. That’s what He did.”
The way she had said “He,” with such bitterness, made me mute. After a time, I said, “He gave you that voice.”
She laughed harder then. “And what has this voice bestowed upon us, niece?”
“Well, I like your voice. I look forward to our rides, Auntie. All week.”
She cut me a look then. Auntie August had a sharp tongue, but like Mya, she also had a sensitive side she hated showing. “You better be worth this gas money, niece. Better end up painting the Sistine Chapel or some shit.”
I’d rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. “Not if Mama has her way,” I said, unable to conceal the bitterness in my voice.
Mama’s and my fights were becoming as legendary, as commonplace, as Auntie August’s cream kimono. It seemed like every time I opened my sketchbook, there she was over my shoulder, telling me to put it away. When, once, I had said no, our yelling shook the house. Reminded me of Daddy.
“You sure do know how to ruin a good song, Joan,” Auntie had said.
“Sorry, Auntie.”
“Your mama just wants the best for you, is all,” my aunt had said and exited the car off Cooper and onto North Parkway.
I stole glances around the room when Mr. Harrison’s back was turned, sketching the angles of the desks and chairs and pretending they were notes on the lecture. Mama may have wanted what was best for me, but maybe she didn’t know what that really was. Over the summer, she had looked over my shoulder while I sketched a vase of flowers, shaken her head back and forth, and said, “Girl, you are just like your father.”
I didn’t talk to Daddy much after we left Camp Lejeune. I hadn’t seen him in the flesh since. He’d call for birthdays, the major holidays. He sent birthday cards, with platitudes printed in neat fonts, attached to gifts that never fit me: a charm bracelet, a Game Boy, a set of eyeshadow colors. I’d rather have had oils. Inks. Paper. Canvas. Pencils. I’d rather have had a father, frankly. The fact that he could leave us mystified me. Yes, we had fled in a van. But why the hell hadn’t he pursued? Why hadn’t he fought for us? Why didn’t he ever visit Memphis? Why did he care more about his career than us, than me? Why had he given Mama a black eye? He had turned the thing damn near purple.
Mya still talked to him. I’d catch her on the ancient rotary phone in the hallway by the bathroom, twirling her fingers in the cord and whispering. I didn’t blame her. How could I? She wanted a father.
I was satisfied to live without the lot of them—all men did was fail me. Derek was serving out his life sentence at the Riverbend Maximum Security prison, a stone’s throw from Nashville. My Auntie August visited him every month. She’d return from the three-hour drive with bleary eyes and a depression that would last the week. The house would lose its magic in those times. Auntie August was a shell of herself. She’d do hair, but she wouldn’t try her more exotic cuts or riskier styles. Her food would be almost tasteless, made without flavor or her usual, delicious finesse. She gave one-word answers to almost all our questions and went to bed early, hardly touching her plate.