As a baby, Miriam had been passed between the hands of Miss Dawn and Miss Jade. A revolving carousel of established, notable Southern women in the neighborhood came together to fetch Miriam when Hazel needed to study or work or sleep. They left pies at the doorstep. The men left deep coolers of fresh-caught crawfish.
The priest, Father Hunter—a big, round, jovial man who had baptized her mother—came over once a month, religiously, for dinner. Always brought over a case of wine and a pound of red meat, waving away Hazel’s objections, calling out in his homily voice that this is what Fathers were for. Over the years, Father Hunter had taught little Miriam how to fish. How to hook a bouncing cricket without flinching. How to cast perfectly, as if steered by the hand of God.
When Miriam turned six, Stanley insisted in his thick German accent that she must learn to ride a bicycle. He stood outside the house, one hand attached to a lipstick-red Schwinn with a bow on its handlebars the size of a bird, his other hand honking its tiny horn.
And it was Miss Jade who took Miriam to get her ears pierced when she was eight years old, just after August was born. Which simply meant she marched a shaking Miriam down to Miss Dawn’s leaning pink house, where the wise woman sat on her porch, fire-hot sewing needle in one hand, cigarette in the other.
Although the neighborhood had raised her and raised her with love, Miriam missed the father she’d never known. Was curious as to how the mere mention of him would send her mother to another room. Always, her mother would reemerge, red-eyed, but ready to answer any and all questions Miriam might have about Myron.
Would he recognize me, Miriam pondered. Miriam looked for another long moment at her figure in the iced-over window. She placed her mittens against the small of her back, poked out her chest, and thought, Maybe, one day, I will be tall.
She continued the short walk home, turned right onto Chelsea, and passed Stanley’s. For a moment, she thought about entering. But it was too cold for butter pecan ice cream, and Miriam had never taken to other cold-weather sweets—peppermint, licorice, gingerbread.
A woman exited the shop. She was older. Miriam could tell by the way she clutched at the door handle and took careful, deliberate steps toward Brookins Street. She was wrapped in a beautiful pale-pink coat with a high collar. The pink reminded Miriam of Miss Dawn’s house. Odd, Miriam thought. The woman was crying. Sobbing openly. Not even bothering to wipe her face.
Miriam furrowed her brow and continued on her cold walk along the icy streets of North Memphis. She turned left onto Locust Street and was taken aback by all the cars parked along their street. As she climbed the porch steps, she could hear the soft voices of adults inside.
The door opened for Miriam just as she reached to turn the knob. Miss Dawn stood before her, resplendent in a long batik housedress the color of a thousand rubies. Her head was wrapped in a matching scarf.
“Don’t you worry your mama with a thousand questions today, you hear?” she said, ushering Miriam into the warm house. “Your sister’s down for a nap now, too, and today is not the day to go waking her up.”
Inside the wallpapered parlor, Miriam saw many of the neighborhood women she knew and others she did not. Most were weeping. Miriam could tell by the smoke coming from the back of the house, and by the sound of deeper voices there, that men were chain-smoking in the kitchen. Unlike most of the political meetings that occurred at the house, this one seemed muted, melancholy.
“What kind of questions?” Miriam asked.
“You already doing it,” Miss Dawn whispered.
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” Miriam persisted. “Why isn’t the record player on? Who are all these people? Why is everyone so upset?”
“She don’t know?”
Miriam heard her mother’s voice. She sounded weak, like a hurt bird. “Mama?” She scanned the parlor until she found her mother, perched on the piano stool. She had been obscured by a crowd of women holding handkerchiefs to their faces.