I stepped out of the car and could almost hear Aretha Franklin’s powerhouse vocals spelling out the letters to “Respect” from the radio Vera used to keep on the open windowsill at the front of the house. The smell of collard greens and pound cakes would float outside from the kitchen, Vera’s friends like Miss Toney and Bankrobber and her cousin Birdie all sitting on the porch laughing and chatting as most people do when times are good. Bankrobber, whose real name was Roscoe Wilkins, was rumored to have actually robbed a bank somewhere up north and his relatives sent him south to hide out for a while. Bankrobber used to tell stories about all the money he’d stashed in various spots around the city of Chicago. He made promises to buy Miss Toney a candy-apple-red Cadillac and threatened to slather Birdie in so much Chanel No. 5 perfume that he’d be forced to marry her because she smelled so good—all those promises, when he spent the better part of the day bumming cigarettes or waiting on someone to invite him in and offer him what generally became his only meal of the day.
Sometimes, when their conversations turned serious, Vera would shoo Sam and me away. Sam would get distracted by one thing or another. But me, I’d always sneak back along the side of the house and eavesdrop. The adults talked in low voices about how nothing good ever came out of Chillicothe. How this town sucked the life out of Black folks and anyone who missed the opportunity to escape was doomed to die here the same way they lived here: poor and miserable. And Vera always talked about “saving the babies.” She said she’d spend the rest of her life saving little babies, even if that meant preventing them from coming into a waiting world full of abuse and people who didn’t want them or, worse, wouldn’t love them.
Miss Toney and Birdie were dead now. Bankrobber, too, having never returned North.
And now, everything was quiet. Gray.
Chillicothe, Georgia, June 1979
Martha and I stepped inside Vera’s big yellow farmhouse. To me, she was like a golden-colored angel. A beacon in a dark sea of neglect and abuse, and I swam to her as if my life depended on it. She stared at me without saying a word. Ever since Martha discovered an inventory overage of sanitary napkins in the bathroom, she and Willie Jay argued about what to do about my situation. Willie Jay, being the force to reckon with, overruled Martha’s plan that I should have the baby and sent us both to Vera’s. I wondered whether Martha knew why Willie Jay would be so concerned about my future or if he confessed his fear of my bringing a child into the world whose skin tone would point an accusatory finger announcing to the world that he was a monstrous pedophile.
After a moment, Vera ambled over to the door and pulled me into a warm soft hug. I think I must have cried for five minutes straight and Vera never let go.
“She’s young, Martha. Why you let this happen?” Vera asked as she pulled out of the hug.
Martha stood mute, wringing her hands.
“You’ll be fine, sugar,” Vera said to me.
I stared at the cracks between the boards of the dull hardwood floor, full of shame and fear. Vera shook her head as she stomped into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a cup of tea. She handed it to me. “Drink this. All of it.”
I winced at the first sip, a heavy mint taste that faded into a strong burning sensation at the back of my tongue and crept down my throat, stinging my nose and ears in the process. I’d never tasted liquor before but figured Vera had placed some into my tea. I couldn’t understand how Martha could drown herself in something so disgusting. Vera tapped the cup when I refused to drink more. I sipped the tea again. By the third sip, the burn eased, the taste was smoother, and I began to feel calmer. But my head felt like lead and any quick moves sent the room into a revolution.
“This might be a while, Martha. Why don’t you go on home?” Vera said to my mother. “There’s nothing for you to do here.”
“No, I wanna stay.”
“I can bring her on back home. You don’t need to stay none,” Vera said.
“No.” Martha reached into the back pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a small wad of bills and handed them to Vera. “He told me I had to stay.”
Vera shook her head again in disgust. “You know womenfolk gotta count for something on this earth ’cause we the ones responsible for bringing other people in the world. But it oughta be our decision when we wanna do so or who we wanna do it with.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes at Martha. “You stay right here, and I don’t want to hear a mumblin’ word outta you.”