I shook my head.
“You sure, Ailey? We don’t have to do anything else. I promise I won’t take advantage of you.”
“Yes, I’m sure, David. I really want to.”
He unzipped my shorts, easing a hand inside my panties, and, oh, it was so wet, he told me. I put my arm over my face, but he said, don’t be embarrassed. He liked it wet like that, and did that feel okay? I nodded, lifting my hips, and he nuzzled the side of my face, finding my mouth. We kissed as he moved a finger around. He wanted me to feel good, he told me, flicking a spot. He slipped the finger inside me slowly. When he started sucking my nipples again, I reached for his fly, but he moved his hips.
“Stop, okay?”
“What’s wrong, David?”
“We got to go.”
“It can’t be curfew yet.”
He stood, jogging in place. Breathing hard. I held out my hand, but he stepped back. Turned around for a few seconds, talking to himself. When he turned back, he told me he had to fold the blanket. Come on, and I headed for the car. I tried not to cry, wondering, what had I done wrong? Did he think I was gross for letting him touch me like that?
At the house, he opened the car door for me. “You’re not mad at me, are you, Ailey?”
“I guess not.”
“I gotta work tomorrow, but can I see you on Sunday? After church, I mean?”
“For real? Yeah! I mean, sure.”
When we kissed, he moved his hips back. “Go on inside, please. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too.”
When I let myself in, my granny called out from the back. In her bedroom, a window fan moved a slight breeze.
“I’m a little sleepy, Miss Rose. Can I go to bed?”
“In a minute. Come on in and sit with me, baby.”
I settled beside her, but not too close. I didn’t want her to smell David’s aftershave.
“You know, Ailey, I didn’t want your mama to leave here. My only daughter. My baby girl. I missed her so bad, even though her college was right up the road.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then she married your daddy. I was sad, ’cause I hoped she’d marry somebody down here. But your mama never really belonged here. Some places make you feel good for a while, but you can’t stay. You real smart, Ailey, so you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t have the slightest idea what she meant, and I wanted to get to bed, to remember the moment David had put his hand down my shorts.
“Tell me the truth, and whatever you say, your granny won’t be mad.” Miss Rose looked at me, her eyes moving back and forth. “Are you still a good girl?”
“Do you mean am I a virgin?”
“Ailey Pearl, don’t you play with me.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am still a good girl.” I hoped I was telling the truth.
“Oh, thank you, Jesus.” The words came out in a whisper. When I went into her arms, she kissed my face. “You go on to bed, baby. Me and Pauline need help with peeling tomorrow.”
Pecan Trees and Various Miscellanea
Though Uncle Root and his late wife had visited his relatives often, they hadn’t ever lived long in Chicasetta. They’d both taught at Routledge College, and resided in the faculty house until she passed away in the late ’50s. Their apartment had been small, but Uncle Root told me they’d liked their lodgings. They were only twenty-five miles away from family, but far enough to maintain their privacy.
It took two decades after Aunt Olivia died for Uncle Root to buy his first house in Chicasetta. That place had been in the designated Black part of town—called “Crow’s Roost”—but the street that the old man had lived on was the fanciest one in that neighborhood, where the one Black doctor, one Black lawyer, and every Black teacher had lived. In the mid-1980s, Uncle Root had bought his second house in Chicasetta, after he’d retired from teaching. He was the first African American to live in his new neighborhood, which was called the “silk stocking district” among the white families in town. He’d bought the house at a rock-bottom price when an elderly white couple passed away—the wife, and soon after, the husband—and their children had no desire to move back home. The house was imposing, with nine huge rooms, ten-foot ceilings, and a wraparound porch.
Mere hours after Uncle Root moved in, somebody left a bucket of spoiled fried chicken crawling with wormy, opaque bugs on his front porch. The next week, a case of malt liquor. Then a ripe watermelon, which he’d kept, and it had been quite delicious. It took months for the harassment to stop.