Mya whistled in wonder as we approached. I felt like I was in some ancient Southern tableau and that, at any moment, a ghostly Confederate general would appear on the porch steps, smoking a cigar and declaring that the damned nigger-loving Yankees would be licked by Christmas.
Instead, a woman the color of the muddy Mississippi River’s banks sat on the porch steps. Her long locs were piled atop her head and wrapped in an intricate kente cloth. She wore a flowing blue dress as faded as her house. Twin wicker baskets rested on a lower step in front of the woman. As we walked closer, I could see the baskets were full of greens. The woman took long-stemmed legumes, snapped the ends off in a quick motion, and threw the pieces into their respective baskets.
As soon as I saw them, I knew I had to sketch her hands. They were exquisite. Her long, dark-brown fingers captivated me, entwined as they were in a fluid dance with the green beans. I couldn’t tell her age—she looked both young and ancient at the same time—but it was obvious, from her dark skin reflecting the morning light, that she was beautiful. Maybe Memphis won’t be so bad after all, I thought. All these dark-skinned women around me. So much to sketch. So many colors to paint.
We stopped near the bottom of the steps, and Wolf sat down, almost as tall as Mya, even when sitting. Hands are the hardest thing to draw. But this woman’s hands, with their ancient veins and hardened knuckles—I knew her hands would be my Mona Lisa, Cezanne’s Oranges, Monet’s Water Lilies, if I could get them just right.
“You two Miriam’s girls?” Her voice was pure Memphis. It sounded like the gunshot we heard the night before—sharp and yet slow, echoing far into the darkness of that night.
“How do you know who we are?” Mya asked.
The woman seemed surprised. “Y’all Norths all look the same. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that before?”
“I’ll give you this here pie if you let me come and draw you,” I said without thinking.
“Joanie!” Mya exclaimed. She pulled my arm, and I about near dropped the lemon meringue.
“Hush,” I whispered.
The woman chuckled and tossed another broken bean into her basket. “No need for all that. Why don’t you pick some blackberries ’round back and bring me back a cobbler? Draw me all you want if I get some.”
“Them your blackberry bushes?” I asked. I motioned with my head toward the left of her house, where the street dead-ended.
“I reckon so,” she said, “and yours now if you bring me some of your mama’s cobbler.” She paused, threw a bean in a basket, and said, “Why you want to draw me anyway?”
“I like your hands.”
“My hands?” The woman gestured with her right, holding a long green bean. “These things? Well now, I suppose they are rather magical.”
“When you snap, can you make my toys dance?” Mya asked.
“What now, honey?”
“Mary Poppins can. And she’s real magic,” Mya said.
I pinched Mya’s arm. “Don’t be rude,” I said, twisting her skin.
“No, your sister is right. Gotta prove it. My magic,” she said.
“Can you make a magic carpet so we can fly? Or can you make it nighttime right now?” Mya shrugged off my pinch, jumping up and down in anticipation of the magic she was about to witness.
The woman rose from her seat on her porch steps. She brushed off the remaining beans that stuck to the front of her dress.
Mya and I, and even Wolf, stepped back a bit. I imagined the woman would fling wide her arms, throw back her head, and chant some nonsense that would turn the sky instantly black. Instead, she stood there on her front steps and stared at me for a long time. It felt like I was looking at a solar eclipse—I knew I shouldn’t face it head-on, but I wanted to see the phenomenon through.