Rhythms of Grace Read online

  She chased slower this time, but my heart beat faster, sort of like Brian’s drum. I slumped in the corner, quiet, while she looked for me with the cord raised above her head. One time, she’d fallen asleep on the couch like that, with an iron cord over her head. I’d climbed out the window onto Brian’s bike.

  Blood trailed down the side of my face. I must have moved or something because the cord came down again. I ducked to miss the plug, but banged my head hard into the wall in the process.

  That made me laugh. I don’t know why, but suddenly everything was funny. Ridiculous. Everybody said I should just go to the shelter, go to foster care and be some old person’s boyfriend like the other kids I knew who’d gone. They said Brian’s mother was too old to adopt me and that there were other kids, black kids that she should take. My mother was in treatment, they said. A hopeful case.

  I laughed harder at the thought of it, feeling hot and dizzy. So tired I wanted to sleep and never wake up. Maybe tonight I would be with Brian’s Jesus, the man of the cross and the shame. If God would have me, I’d be glad to come. I wasn’t so sure on the heaven thing, but anything had to be better than this.

  Anything.

  Maybe I’d go back to the shelter. Maybe nobody would touch me this time. I slid down the wall, but not before she got me one last time, with all her strength. I tried to catch the cord, but it cut my hand. I screamed, then cursed myself for screaming.

  Punk.

  The room flashed black. When I saw clear again, Mama was bending over me again, trying to stand up. When she bobbled back and swung down again, I didn’t even try to block her. I closed my eyes, but not before I heard the screen door bang open and then the front door. I didn’t see them, but I knew. I took a deep breath to be sure. Vanilla extract and Afro Sheen. Yeah. It was them.

  I squinted to see Miss Eva’s wrinkled hands around Mama’s wrists.

  “Marie, put it down,” she said from somewhere so far away it seemed like a dream.

  “I ain’t putting nothing down. This is my boy.”

  She did put it down, though. Mama put it down and stepped away, backed up against the wall.

  Miss Eva tried to talk to her while Brian helped me up.

  “Thanks,” I said, not really looking at him. I’d told him never to bring anybody, but this time I guess I was glad. Still, my mother was shouting with Brian’s mother in the corner, and I didn’t know how it might turn out. Miss Eva talked calm, but I’d seen her snatch Brian off a basketball court while he was in midair. She was nobody to play with.

  “Yeah,” he said back with a quick nod.

  Miss Eva smiled at Mama and took a deep breath. “Marie, I know you and I knew your mama too. I know that man done you bad and I’m sorry, but this has gone on too long. Now stop before you beat this child to death.” She walked over to me and touched the side of my face.

  Child? I was no child. I was a man. And my grandmother? Miss Eva had never mentioned knowing her. I tried to recall what she looked like. A kind voice. A soft touch. And nice eyes. Brown eyes. No face would come.

  I tried to sit up, knowing without looking that Mama was gone. Her shows were private. Though Mama would never admit it, she was embarrassed by Eva’s kindnesses and hated them for knowing our secrets probably more than she was prejudiced against them. That was Miss Eva’s theory anyway. She restated it again as she crushed me to her bosom. “Don’t you mind your mama. She’s just shamed at me seeing her like this.”

  “I told him not to bring you. She’s got a gun.” I whispered the words into the flowers on her dress.

  “Marie is bad off, I know, but Brian Michael was so upset. I was just going to come up here to talk before I called the police. Then I heard you scream when we was still a ways down the road. Lord, that scream . . .”

  That stupid screaming. If I’d only held out a little longer, she probably would have fallen asleep and everything could go back like before. “I didn’t mean to scream,” I said without looking at Brian. “She caught me by surprise. I’m sorry. She could’ve got the gun and shot y’all or something . . .”

  Miss Eva’s chest moved up and down. It made my head hurt, but I stayed put.

  “The Lord looks after babies and fools, right? It looks like we both qualify today. And don’t worry about screaming, baby. Don’t ever stop.” She pulled away and held me in front of her. “Someday you might even have to scream for somebody else.”

  Brian draped my arm over his shoulder.

  I grabbed on to the wall. “My notebook. In the room. Third drawer. Can you get it?”

  A grin inched across Miss Eva’s face. “The word of your testimony. Have you been writing every day like Joyce told y’all? That’s almost half your grade, you know.” She held me up while Brian darted into the next room.

  It hurt to breathe. “I’m trying.”

  I thought about what the room might look like to Brian, even in the light of the street. I shrugged. He’d seen worse. He’d seen things that nobody else had. To prove it, he came back seconds later with the notebook shoved under his arm. “Let’s go,” he said, having had enough experience with Mama to see the wisdom in a quick getaway.

  We went out the door and down the steps together, all the family each other had. There weren’t any words to be said, so none of us looked for any. As the rain baptized us, curtains inched back at the windows we passed by. Even in the storm and shame, Miss Eva smiled and waved her hand as the drapes fell back into place.

  Brian didn’t slow down until we stopped at his place, a yellow frame house with pink roses. I tried to walk inside by myself, but Brian wouldn’t let go.

  I shook my head. “Don’t, man. I’ve got this.” I didn’t have it, not my strength or anything else. If it weren’t for the rain, I’d have passed out on the way. Brian knew it, but he let me walk to the door anyway, following me every step.

  Once we were inside, he picked me up like a bag of bones and carried me to the bathroom. Miss Eva sat on the edge of the tub, touching my forehead, while Brian started the water for the rags, first hot, then just enough cold. I’d had to tell him how to do it the first time I showed up silent and bleeding, but he never forgot after that.

  Miss Eva told me to hold up my arms and started to tug at my shirt. I struggled to sit up, staring at Brian in a panic.

  His hand came out of the sink so fast that some of the water sloshed over the side. “It’s not so bad, Mama. We can do it.”

  Brian’s mother, much older than the other mothers on the block, but much smarter too, got the clue quickly and stood up and started for the kitchen. I hated to deprive her of being good to me, but sometimes pity hurt as much as the rest of it.

  She seemed to understand. “You hungry, Red?”

  My red-brown hair didn’t look like much to me, but Miss Eva liked it a lot. I liked it when she called me that. “Yes ma’am.” I pried off my soggy Chuck Taylors with my toes.

  “Well, all right then. I’ll go warm up some dinner.” She paused at the door while Brian pulled my shirt up just enough to clean my back. The water went red on his first pass.

  I sat up a little, feeling better already. “What you cook? Pork chops?” I toppled backwards when Brian put the hot rag on the cut across my back.

  Brian broke my fall and pushed me gently before Miss Eva could get across the room. She took a step back. “No pork chops, baby. Chitlins, macaroni and cheese, greens and cornbread. All your favorites.”

  I stared into Miss Eva’s eyes. Brown eyes. I laughed out loud. “You cleaned chitlins?” I twisted around to Brian behind me. “And you let her? You all must have thought she was going to kill me for sure.” I jumped and winced as he put on the hydrogen peroxide.

  Brian winced too, only at the thought of the pig intestines he hated so much. He shook his head in agreement. “Yeah, I let her clean them for your stupid butt. Now, I’m the only one who’s gonna die. Pig guts. Who in the world would want to eat that?”

  “Hush, boy,” Miss Eva said from the
kitchen. “You don’t have to eat it.”

  “Shore don’t.” I gave Brian a playful elbow as he wound a bandage around my chest. “Get out the hot sauce, will you, Miss Eva?”

  Brian shuddered with disgust, lifting my shirt up the rest of the way and pulling it over my head. “Sometimes I could swear you’re black under there.”

  I stared at the blood staining Brian’s fingers. So much blood. I swallowed hard. When it came down to it, there was only one color that mattered. “All blood runs red.”

  4

  Rolls look boring at the store. They sit still in the package and keep real quiet. Those were the only kind of rolls I knew, silent ones. I didn’t know about talking bread with crunchy outsides and soft bellies, begging for butter. I didn’t know a ball of yeast could talk a bruised boy out of bed, but I was learning and not just about bread.

  First off, there was the new sleeping rule. I didn’t hear about this one until I’d healed up enough to get around. Miss Joyce brought my work over after school and Brian shared his notes. Just when I felt better and thought we’d be able to have some fun after Miss Eva went to bed, she laid down the new law: after the evening news, everything with legs, including critters and boys, had to go upstairs. No coming down until morning, not even to pee. That seemed a little silly, especially with those big rooms downstairs, but like Brian says, sometimes it’s best to just go along. I think Miss Eva was more worried about my mama than she let on.

  Women are that way, I think, knowing things that men don’t quite get. Their rules don’t always make sense, but the one time you don’t listen, you’re doomed. That much, I knew already. Brian had to elbow me the first few nights when the news went off to remind me that instead of whispering all night downstairs like we’d always done, we had to go upstairs. That part, the going up, took forever. Though Miss Eva moved fast in the daytime, at night, she turned old in the same way my mother turned crazy.

  I decided right then, on the stairs, to spend some time with my wife after dark before marrying her. Can’t be too careful about stuff like that. Slow stair-climbing I could deal with, but crazy was something else altogether. It took me awhile to get used to going so slow on those stairs. It was like being almost to the top of Mount Everest but only taking one teeny step at a time. Brian seemed disgusted to be sleeping upstairs at all, but for me it was something else new: dust bunnies, Miss Eva’s snoring, and even Brian’s elbow in my eye.

  I loved it all, though it bothered me that I was starting to look forward to Masterpiece Theater on the radio. I’d be a total nerd if I kept that up. Still, every day, there was something to be eager for: the hum of hymns rising in the oven downstairs, soon to be covered with honey butter and gooseberry jam. And today, I had something else to be excited about, scared about.

  Today, I was going to meet Jesus.

  After the rolls, of course. Even God wouldn’t expect me to pass that up, I thought, plodding down the creaky steps two at time in the direction of the smell. Brian had left me sleeping, probably hoping to get an extra roll or two, but it was “few-tile,” as Miss Eva said so often. Those rolls were singing and I meant to taste them all— chorus, refrain, and all the delicious notes in between. Even after so many mornings of fresh, hot bread, I kept waking up expecting the wonder to end. As usual, I was happy to be wrong.

  Brian sat at the checker-clothed table nibbling calmly, undaunted by the spread. He put down the paper and looked at me like he was my father instead of my friend. “Morning.”

  I took another step toward the table, but paused at the stove, where Miss Eva cracked the first of several eggs over a mound of frying potatoes. I breathed deep, trying to suck all this goodness into my mind, into my memory, so then when the bad times came, when the breakfasts ended, when Mama came for me . . . I’d remember how good it all was. All of it. The little things too, like the way Miss Eva’s dress hugged the roll of fat on her back. Clinging for dear life.

  “It’s rude to stare, Rodney,” she said, addressing me by her pet name, the name of her first son, drowned at sixteen. Our age. Brian quietly suspected it was the first sign of sin-ill-ity, as he so mercilessly mocked his mother’s pronunciation, but for me, it was a badge of honor being called the name of her son. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had called me by anything other than “boy” or “laddie” or other things, things I’d like to forget. But this hot, sweet Sunday, I wanted to remember forever. Hence, the staring.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Eva.” I bowed my head, trying to remember the prayer Brian had taught me days before. Once I got the sleeping down, there was the training of prayer and sifting through all the church words that Miss Eva used while talking on the phone. He’d put me through a crash course in Church 101 the last few nights, but I still felt ill-prepared. Brian assured me that no matter how stupid I acted, the music would be too loud for anyone to notice. Since I’d heard most of those songs and sermons all the way down to my house, I knew that part was true. It wasn’t the people who worried me anyway; it was meeting the Big Guy that had me a little worried. It’s not every day that a kid meets God.

  I must have been staring again because Brian stomped my foot under the table. My eyes pressed shut again and I drowned out the sweet-talking bread and sizzling bacon. I ran a finger over the scar at my temple, now scabbed and itchy.

  Jesus, thanks for all this good stuff. I’m looking forward to meeting you today.

  There, that should do it. The key is not to overthink it, Brian says. Not that I ever do that. I’m usually trying not to think about something, except this bread. I grabbed a roll and stuffed it into my mouth. Just as good as yesterday. Not better. Not worse. Just perfect, exactly the same. And nobody here seemed to think that was strange. I stared at Miss Eva again, wiping her wrinkled hands on her apron. I tried not to stare, but her hands always kept my attention. They were three shades: nutmeg to her knuckles, then a stretch of pecan ran into dark chocolate cuticles. Her palms were always pink and soft, probably from working all that bread. She narrowed her eyes at me. I was staring again.

  “There’s just so much to look at, I can’t help myself.”

  Miss Eva laughed at the stove. “I guess there is a lot to see around here, baby. Just don’t start with that excuse. It’s a dangerous one. Pray and ask God to help you with it, hear?” She slid a mess of eggs and potatoes onto a plate and placed it in front of us.

  I nodded in agreement. It had taken me awhile to realize what she meant when she said it like that, but now I found myself saying it too. It drove Brian crazy. “I think I’ll pray about it at church this morning.”

  Miss Eva looked very pleased with this response. Before I could ask, she placed a bottle of ketchup beside my plate. “Brian Michael, get those preserves from the red-topped cupboard before this boy eats all the rolls.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brian closed his paper and reached behind him into the cupboard in the corner.

  Gooseberry. Please let there be more. I promise not to eat it all this time.

  I stuffed another roll into my mouth while Brian knocked around in the cupboard, probably just to torment me. I turned away from the table and leaned toward the gas stove. Mesmerized by the little grease-people left behind on the skillet, I leaned even closer, watching them dance across the pan. A burst of oil popped up and missed my cheek by an inch.

  “Lord have mercy!” Miss Eva spun from the sink where she’d begun washing dishes. “See there! Get back now.” She jerked the pan off the eye of the stove.

  My chest felt tight. The popping sound had scared the air out of me. I’d even stopped chewing. “I’m sorry, Miss Eva. I—”

  She shook her head. “I know. You just can’t help it. That’s a sorry song you’re singing, Mister. And a whole lot of sorry men sang it before you. If you’re going to live here, you better learn to help it, you hear?”

  Surprised a little by her firm tone, I nodded and slid back onto my chair, raising a tin cup of milk to my lips. Miss Eva had never raised her
voice at me before. When she did, she sounded a little too much like . . . Mama. Suddenly the roll in my mouth didn’t taste so good. I spat a ball of dough, covered with gooseberries, onto the plate.

  “Man, that’s nasty.” Brian peeked over the edge of the international page with a frown.

  “Bri, you look like an old Englishman sitting with his tea and crumpets. All you need is a pipe.”

  Brian tugged the paper down again, dragging his eyes from an interview with Nelson Mandela. “An Englishman with an afro? Man, please. Eat your food. We’ve got to get dressed.”

  Brian’s voice was a little louder than I would have liked. It wasn’t that Brian and Miss Eva were being mean, but they weren’t being, well . . . perfect. And when things weren’t perfect for me, they were bad. Real bad. There didn’t seem to be anything in the middle. I didn’t want bad things again. Not here. I slumped in the chair.

  Miss Eva’s doughy fingers touched my neck. “No need to go pouting now. I still love you. You just mind me and we’ll all make out fine. Isn’t that right, Brian Michael?”

  Coating the last roll with the peach preserves he’d dug out from the back of the cabinet, Brian nodded. He waited for Miss Eva to turn back to the stove. “Listen to what she says,” he whispered, bringing my hand to a keloid scar behind his ear. “That stove is nothing to mess with.” He broke his roll in half and put it on my plate, grimacing as his fingers grazed the mess already there.

  I took the bread and smiled, thinking of the scars already covering my own body. Mama wasn’t nothing to mess with either. I’d take this place over that one any day, stove and all. “Thanks, Bri.”

  The newspaper stayed up. “Anytime.”

  After years of watching Miss Eva and Brian through the blinds on their way to Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church, I was finally making the walk with them, as I’d done so many times in my mind. During revivals, I’d put my ear to the wall, listening to the music that poured over the neighborhood from their little tent. Like the mysterious talking rolls from Brian’s kitchen, the people in his church could sing like nobody I’d ever known. I’d been too far away to make out the words, but I knew the tunes. There was one melody that always made my eyes water. It sounded deep down, like when Brian used to play his drum.