“Mm-hmm.” Mya nodded. She bit into the ripe meat of the peach as she listened, the nectar spilling onto her chin. “Hmmm.” Her tone shifted to consideration. The phone’s cord twisted around her body as she kept dodging my attempts to take back the receiver.
“All right then, Negro. We on our way,” she finally said.
“What?”
She unraveled herself with a spin. Mya, as swiftly as she had taken the receiver, abruptly dropped it down on its hook.
We stood there in the foyer glaring at each other.
Mya took another big bite of her peach. “Well,” she said between chews, “guess we should put some clothes on.”
“Mya, that prison sits right outside of Nashville.” The distance wasn’t really the issue, but I grasped at the logistics like they were some sort of lifejacket that could save me from this plan.
“Mm-hmm,” Mya said, chewing.
“That’s three hours from here,” I said.
“Mmmm.”
“And it’s Tuesday,” I said, slow.
“Right you are. Go on.” Mya motioned with her peach.
“Right, and on Tuesdays we have school.”
“Reckon so.”
I desperately wanted to sit. My chest expanded and contracted with the long breath that left my body. “I’m going to see Derek, aren’t I?”
“You’re going to see Derek,” Mya said.
“I’m taking the Shelby,” I said.
“You’re taking the Shelby,” Mya repeated.
“And I’m skipping school.”
“We.”
“Huh?”
“We skipping school. I’m coming with you.” Mya bit into her peach and, between bites, said, “And on the drive, you can tell me what the fuck that boy did to you all them years ago.”
CHAPTER 24
August
2001
Three days. It had been three days since the sky fell. Three days since she had run out into the yard and met Joan and Mya. Joan’s history teacher carried Mya like she was a sack of potatoes in his arms. She was wailing. Neighbors came out to inspect. Heads over hedges, craning to see the daughters of that military Yankee man stumble up the drive.
Joan said nothing. Walked alongside her teacher with her sister in his arms, resigned, quiet. August stopped her at the front door. Put both hands on her niece’s shoulders, stared deep in her dark eyes, and said, “You better be a fortress for that girl in there.”
August turned off the television in the parlor. She held a cigarette in one hand, the rotary phone receiver in the other, and declared that the phone lines were likely down. They’d hear from him. She was sure.
All of August’s and Joan’s pestering could not convince Mya that she should eat something. She lay on the daybed in the quilting room and refused to do anything more than that. August expected this: The girl just likely lost her father. What August hadn’t expected were the gifts of food at her front door every night. Left by nameless angels. The doorbell would ring, and August would open it to find spiral honey ham or chicken broccoli casserole or a plate of beef ribs.
August closed her shop that week. No one in the mood to get their hair done anyway. Get dolled up to sit in front of the TV and cry? August closed the shop, and she and Joan sat in silence most of the day until Miriam came home from the hospital and rushed to Mya’s bedside. The girl would not move from her bed. August walked past the quilting room and caught sight of Miriam, still in her scrubs, stroking Mya’s hair and whispering things to her. Mya moved not.
On the third night, August heard the doorbell again. Everyone was home that night: unusual. Miriam had to work most nights, but she’d pulled back on her shifts that week. It was far past everyone’s bedtime. Midnight had come and gone. But no one could sleep, so no one told anyone else to go to bed. August, Miriam, and Joan sat around the kitchen table, forks in hand, eating directly from Miss Jade’s pan of chicken noodle casserole, which she had pushed into August’s hands earlier, shaking her head and exclaiming what a shame it all was, somehow every lady up in this house loses a daddy.
Wolf raised her head from Joan’s feet and growled.
August turned to her sister. Perhaps it was instinct. The basic, intrinsic knowledge of danger can overwhelm a body. Or perhaps August, born on a Wednesday, had been accustomed to woe. But she knew that knock on the door was no neighbor.
“Fetch Mama’s gun,” she whispered to Miriam.
August saw her sister nudge herself out of the booth and walk, very calmly, into the quilting room. When Miriam came back, walking in those same slow strides, she tossed the Remington to August, who caught it midair, nodded for Miriam to follow her.
The door pounded again. The bell rang.
Wolf uncurled herself with some effort from Joan’s feet. The years were getting to Wolf. She moved a bit slower, but her protective instincts had kicked in. She got into a stalking position, crouched low to the ground. She had stopped growling; now she crept, inching toward the door, whimpering slightly.
“Mama?” Joan asked. “Auntie?”
August led, and Miriam was her shadow. The sisters walked as calm and graceful as some ancient African queens: out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the parlor, and up to the door. The bright yellow of the door dulled in the dark of the September night; the door now resembled tall maize in a night field. The door became something August had to wade through, a field of yellow poppies that August had to cut back, regardless of their Siren’s power. But she made it to the door, and just as August leaned to peer through the peephole, the door’s golden hinges shook with more pounding.
Her head jerked, and she jumped back. She didn’t get a chance to take a good look, but she’d seen enough to know that two unknown men stood on their porch steps at nearly two in the morning.
“Mama?”
August heard her niece. Heard the worry in her voice. Joan must have followed them to the parlor.
Gently, Miriam pushed August out of the way and took her place at the door. She held the door handle. August could tell Miriam sought her approval.
August gave it with a quick nod. In one swift motion, she aimed the rifle, and Miriam swung the door open.
“No!” Joan cried.
As the September wind rushed in and August tried to make out who was standing there in the dark, the first thing she became aware of was Wolf. She stood up straight and made an unexpected sound—not a threatening bark or a growl, but a submissive, almost curious whine.
August kept the Remington aimed. Her eyes adjusted, making out the figures on the porch, and involuntarily, her shoulders contracted, then relaxed, then contracted again. For a second, she thought about pulling the trigger anyway.
“Well, damn, Jax. We survived all hell just to get killed by some crazy Negresses in North Memphis.” The voice was male, foreign, and yet familiar.
August felt herself grow nostalgic. She lowered the weapon so it hung loose at her waist, and then, after a few deep breaths, rested the handle on the hardwood floor, barrel toward the ceiling. August had opened that same door for this same man many, many years before.
“Joan,” August said, breathless, panting the adrenaline out of her system. “Your daddy and ’em here.”
CHAPTER 25