The new siblings danced all evening.
Later that night, underneath piles of quilts her mother had made, the taste of red velvet cake still in her mouth, August thought that perhaps not all Yankees should be killed.
CHAPTER 18
Miriam
1997
Miriam was waiting in line to buy her second cup of black, sugary coffee of the day when she heard the news. Formerly named Southwestern, Rhodes College was a small liberal arts school in ritzy Midtown, built in gothic stone and covered in ivy. Miriam was enrolled in the same fast-track nursing program her mother had taken some thirty-odd years before. Both she and Joan would have the same graduation date.
The program was intense and all-consuming. When she wasn’t in class, Miriam shadowed the nurses and attendings at Mount Zion Baptist Memorial. Miriam’s pillow became whatever medical book she had open, her bedroom whatever private space she could find. She made her household study with her. Often, Joan and Mya would hold up flashcards of intricate anatomy and quiz her over dinner. Mya would call out, “By Jove, she’s got it!” whenever Miriam got one right. Joan would clap, slow and deliberate and proud.
The college sent Miriam and her classmates to Baptist Memorial to change bedpans and dressings, insert IVs into waiting and needy veins, and hold the hands of the dying. She did this in fourteen-hour shifts, three days a week. Her hospital work was unpaid, part of what it took to get her combined bachelor’s and nursing degrees.
Miriam knew she could not let her and her girls be a strain financially on August. After class, she would head to Rhodes and work overnight in the library, down in the bowels of the microfiche and microfilm storage. Gigantic shelves on sliding wheels, containing boxes and boxes of old archives, could be moved with the push of a button. Miriam would climb up a ladder and restock and relabel into the early morning hours. The job allowed her to contribute to the grocery and MLGW bills. She knew she had to apply for food stamps when she snapped at Joan for squealing with joy when they drove past a Blockbuster Video. Ashamed she couldn’t spare the dollar for the Hitchcock rental, she had called her daughter selfish. But what child doesn’t want to watch a movie? That is what broke Miriam. Where shame met motherhood. She had snapped at her child for simply wanting to exist as a child.
Miriam found herself snapping at Joan nearly every time the girl opened her sketchbook. Joanie wanted to draw everything. The dark floral wallpaper in the parlor, the curve of the piano’s hutch, August standing by the stove chain-smoking her Kools. Didn’t the girl realize the state of the mess they were in? How on earth was art going to save them?
When Miriam and her girls arrived in Memphis, their bank account and fuel tank were near empty. August was bringing in good money, but not nearly enough to provide for an extra three mouths and a wolf of a dog to feed. Miriam realized she had to do something. She was the elder sister; she had to provide for herself, her daughters; August, too. She applied for government assistance. Without shame. She figured it was better than the shame of asking Jax, the man who had hit her, for a dime.
And Stanley’s son, bless that man, never said a word. Must have inherited more than his looks from his late father. The only question Mr. Koplo Jr. asked when Miriam showed up with her stamps was if she needed help toting her bags home.
After a month of eating spaghetti or rice and beans, the food stamps were manna. Thank God, Miriam thought. She had cried then, after Mya and Joan had put away the groceries. She fled to the bathroom and ran the tap so that no one could hear. Cried for joy at a full-stocked fridge. No, she did not understand how Joan could live in some fairy tale, oblivious to the newfound poverty they now navigated. Why couldn’t she be more like Mya? Present. Practical. Excellent already at math and science. Whereas Joan’s A’s centered on her poetry classes, her art, history—all subjects at which it would be a lifelong struggle for a Black woman to earn a cent.
After the food stamps came the pittance of the state’s housing allowance, which Miriam dutifully handed over in full to August, who had always been good with money, who was in charge of the household’s shopping. August tried to hide the relief in her face when Miriam handed her the very first check, but Miriam knew her sister. She knew money had been a storm cloud hanging over them all. Miriam promised herself not only that she would—no, must—graduate, but that she’d graduate top of her class.