“Sister, you are such a good woman,” he said. “My brother’s so lucky to have you. The movement’s so lucky.”
“Ain’t no revolution ’round here,” Belle said. “It’s just me and my child.”
“I get that, sister.”
“Do you? Would you want somebody treating your real sister like this? You knew what Geoff was doing, didn’t you? Don’t you lie to me!” Her chest expanded. She was feeling mighty and righteous and much taller than her sixty inches.
“I don’t want to get in between the two of you, Belle. I’ll only ask, will you forgive me? I sure wish you would.”
Holding the baby between them, he leaned down, kissing her cheek. When he moved back, he hovered, his face only inches away. Looking at her. Waiting for permission, and it felt like he was Sidney Poitier in A Raisin in the Sun and she was Ruby Dee. It seemed he was sincere, picturing a future that included her.
Belle sympathized then with Zulu’s three common-law wives. How they could discard their pride for a few unsatisfying morsels. She recognized the feeling, because she really wanted this man.
She could invite Zulu into the apartment and make him wait while she laid Lydia down in her crib. He could put a record by Aretha on the turntable. That would calm their sin as he took Belle on the couch, which needed the springs replaced. All night long, and maybe her husband would catch her with her legs wrapped around Zulu. And Geoff would understand what it felt like to be made a fool of, all while you were trying to keep a family together. To give a home some semblance of contentment.
But Belle couldn’t invite Zulu inside, because she was pregnant again. Her freedom was dead. Her girlhood had soared away, without a voyaging word, and she pulled her child from Zulu’s arms.
VI
The future woman must have a life work and economic independence. She must have knowledge. She must have the right of motherhood at her own discretion. The present mincing horror at free womanhood must pass if we are ever to be rid of the bestiality of free manhood; not by guarding the weak in weakness do we gain strength, but by making weakness free and strong.
—W. E. B. Du Bois, Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil
The Debate
In the City, my mother had been a nuisance. Separated from her, I moved into deep affection. I ached for her voice, her questions about whether I was eating right and her urging me to take those vitamins she’d mailed, because I was a young woman and had to take care of my body for later, when the children came.
She sent me weekly letters—sometimes twice a week—filled with emotions I hadn’t known she possessed. Lengthy missives about her staying in the house all day while my father was gone to his practice. She wanted to teach school again, and she knew it was wrong, but she was so jealous of Aunt Diane’s counseling job. And my mother wrote to me about Lydia. Was she dead? And if so, shouldn’t she feel it inside? Something ripping her open to steal her child’s soul? But that feeling hadn’t occurred, and not knowing what had happened to my sister was so hard.
I waited all week for my Sunday evening call from my mother, for the concluding endearments at the end of our fifteen minutes.
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
Afterward, I’d stare at the phone.
That first year of college, I haunted Chicasetta, driving my car up 441 to Miss Rose’s or to knock on Uncle Root’s door after my afternoon classes. I never called to alert them. I was the descendant of countrywomen who showed up at the door and hollered through the screen. With the egotism of youth, I expected my kin to be thrilled, and they never failed me: they dispensed ardent kisses and hugs. After eating the meals my granny cooked or playing chess with the old man, I’d get back in my car and drive back to Routledge, feeling cheated and unsettled, only to return days later looking for a trace of home.
Miss Rose didn’t detect my homesickness. To her, Chicasetta was my real home. Uncle Root told me outright he knew I missed my mother, but he liked having me to himself. He gave me extra gas money for my highway voyages. He assured me daily visits would be a joy. Maybe he was lonely, too. He was eighty-four that year, and many of his contemporaries had died, like Pat Lindsay’s grandfather. Those who remained had progressed into fragility.
Uncle Root looked a younger man, but his vision wasn’t as sharp, his reflexes not as spry. I became his chauffeur on Saturday road trips to Atlanta to the High Museum, or to his favorite art-film house in Buckhead, where he escorted me to my first Spike Lee joint. He dressed in a collared shirt, tie, and suit for these occasions. We’d attend the first matinee, and when the film was over, I’d drive us to Phipps Plaza. Most of the items in the stores were shockingly expensive—fur coats and leather suits—and we never bought anything, but the old man preferred walking in the tranquility of the empty, costly stores in Phipps as opposed to the push-and-shove of Lenox Square, just across the street.