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Evenings in Memphis were setting time. The heat finally breaking. Folk in Douglass were able to venture outside on their wide front porches, sit, and enjoy themselves. Men coming home from work at the Cotton Exchange or Memphis Sanitation or a cotton field called out to their neighbors, their brown arms waving in tired salute, children already glued to their ankles. Women the shape of peaches and pears and apples and in every hue of brown would be at the door, hands on hips, shaking heads at the scene. This was the time suitors were allowed to call. Young folk would be draped around each other, their legs intertwining in a tapestry, asking each other, Do you love me? Somebody usually brought out a guitar. Somebody usually sang the blues. There was talk of everybody pitching in for a jukebox, but the older folk would laugh that idea away, wheel out a Victrola, align needle to groove, and play Ma Rainey. Stray cats would appear at back doors, moaning for scraps, hardly heard over the gossip and the music. Cigar and barbecue smoke combined into a frankincense that had always hypnotized Hazel. But pregnancy had made the aroma nauseating. She couldn’t stand it. So she sat at the window in her parlor instead, fitted with a cushion seat so she could quilt, look out the window, and wait for Myron.
She placed the tiny tomato cushion that held her pins and needles atop her belly, but the baby inside her was restless and kept kicking it off.
“We gon argue over the smallest of stuff. If you don’t let me put this here,” Hazel spoke to her womb, laughter in her voice.
She had reached the final stages of her quilt. When she found out she was pregnant, she had begun to work on the project immediately. She threw herself into it. Collected scraps around the house, went door to door to the women who used to be her mother’s clients and asked if they had anything green. Even though she used the tiny gold thimble Myron had brought back from a shop in Germany, the tips of her fingers were still calloused from the thousands of tiny pricks she had taken. But she had waited her entire life to make this quilt. Her favorite kind: a Tree of Life.
The emerald fabric draped itself around Hazel as she bit her lip, pressing needle through cloth. She adjusted the quilting hoop in her lap. It was difficult to get comfortable with the sheer size of her front and the angle of the oval wooden hoop that held the quilt together.
“This quilt going to get done, you hear me?” In frustration, Hazel stopped fidgeting and spoke again to her almost child. “And I’m going to get my shape back after you. Mmm-hmm. You heard me. Mama cannot be this thick forever.”
Maybe it was the music, but Hazel did not hear the car engine idling in her driveway. Perhaps because she was focused on adjusting the cushions behind her back, getting her sewing hoop to sit on her lap just right, all while the baby kicking inside her, she did not see Casey Barnes get out of the squad car, tuck his cap in the crook of his arm, and climb the steps that led to her porch.
But the neighbors must have, because the guitar strumming ceased and Mr. Emmanuel’s voice down the way died down.
Puzzled at the sudden quiet, Hazel glanced up from her work. Caught a glimpse of red hair standing outside the front door like an omen, the Argo’s black sail.
She thrust the quilt and her sewing pincushion to the floor and rushed to the door and out onto the porch.
The officer stood before her and muttered under his breath that Myron’s squad car had been found in an abandoned salvage yard on Mud Island, his body, bruised and broken, found and pulled from the Mississippi a mile downriver.
Before Hazel could process this information, she was drawn to the demeanor of the man. The way Barnes avoided Hazel’s eyes was all the proof she needed that whatever had happened to Myron, her Myron, had been no accident. Myron had been murdered. By members of the very force who had sworn to protect and defend and honor.
Earlier that day, cleaning out the catfish entrails, Hazel had grieved her mother. Hazel knew loss. Grief was all she had left of her mother. Nothing to be done about it but miss the woman. But that early evening on her front porch, Hazel came to know rage. It was not Myron’s time. Nothing natural took her husband. No heart attack, no old age, no cancer. This white man had taken him. That, and only that, became Hazel’s mania.