Pieces of Why (11 page)

W
HEN
I
GOT
home
,
Ma was waiting in the kitchen, her body rigid. Dwayne walked me inside, shaking out his huge orange-and-black umbrella, and then he squeezed my shoulder. “I know this is a difficult time for you,” he said, “but just remember that things will work out in the long run. They always do.”

I wanted to believe that, but I knew bad stuff didn't go away simply because time passed. Sometimes it got worse.

The moment Dwayne left, my mother pointed to a chair. “Sit,” she commanded. I took the high-backed wooden chair at the kitchen table, my hands trembling. Outside, a siren wailed and another clap of thunder made the thin walls of our house shake.

“
How could you
?” Ma rumbled.

Nothing echoes like those words. I didn't say anything, unsure of what she knew.

“He came by the store today,” Ma said. A sob choked in
her throat and she put the back of her wrist up to her mouth to stop it. “That little girl's grandfather came to the Winn-Dixie and asked for me because apparently my daughter—”

She stopped, struggling to speak through her fury. “Because my daughter paid them a visit,” Ma hissed. She said the words as if she thought it was as bad as breaking into the Mortons' house like my father had all those years before.

“How could you
do
such a thing?” Ma demanded. “Do you think our family hasn't done them enough harm?”

“
You
never told me the truth!” I yelled.

“Told you the truth? Everything I've done has been to allow you to
forget
! And now the first thing you do after you find out is to march over to the Mortons' house? What were you thinking? How long have you known?”

“Long enough,” I snapped. “But I didn't go to Danielle's house to hurt anyone.”

Ma flinched when I said Danielle's name. “What was it, then?” she spat. “Curiosity? Fascination?” Her words dripped with shame.

“You certainly weren't thinking about the Mortons, but did you give a single thought to me? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to see that man again? I can't imagine how he knew where I worked, but there he was all tender and concerned like I've lost control of yet another one of my—”

This time the sob came out loud and full, and it seemed
to take even Ma by surprise. Her shoulders shook and she fell to her knees on the kitchen floor. It wasn't pretty crying. Her mouth hung open for a second before she could contain the wail, and then she just stayed there, rocking back and forth as the rain beat against the kitchen window. A trickle of water forced its way through a crack in the seal and streamed down the wall and onto the linoleum.

I got up and walked over to Ma, not sure whether I should try to comfort her or not. Gingerly, I reached my arms around her, but she pushed me away. Hard. I stumbled backward, feeling as if my house of cards was finally falling over.

“Ma,”
I pleaded when her sobs had slowed down.
“Please.”

I wasn't even sure what I was asking for, but Ma shook her head.

“You have no idea, Tia,” she said. “You don't have any idea what it was like, and all I want is to put this whole thing behind us, but apparently that's too much to ask. Your father broke my heart, and he sure as hell broke their hearts, and now you go dredging everything up after all this time. Why? Why would you do that?”

The trickle of water was turning into a stream, spreading across the kitchen floor, but I didn't move. Ma stood up and leaned against the refrigerator as the water trailed between us.

“I didn't mean to,” I whispered at last. “I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. It's just that you never talked about what happened, and I have so many questions.”

Ma's face was hard. “Don't make excuses.”

“I'm not,” I sputtered. “I just wanted answers and I didn't think—”

“You're darn right you didn't think,” Ma interrupted. “You were just being a
sigh
tseer.
” She said that word like it was the worst word that had ever been invented. “Do you have any idea how many sightseers came around after your father went to prison? People came by to sneer, to spit on our porch steps, to smash the car window . . . All of those judging eyes: my coworkers at the store, folks at church, people on the street when I was walking you to school. Do you really think you would've had a better life if I'd told you what your father did?”

I shivered uncontrollably. “Maybe if I'd known all along . . .”

“What good would that have done?” Ma snapped. “I've given up everything to keep this mess away from you. You think I wouldn't like to go out and do things like any normal person? But the last thing you need is me there, reminding everyone what happened.”

I stared in disbelief.

“Is that why you never go to my concerts? Or June Fest? Or school functions?”

“Somebody has to protect you!”

I took a step toward Ma.

“You call that protecting me?” I hollered. “Maybe if you'd gone and let people stare, they would've gotten over it eight years ago and I could have had at least one of my parents around.”

That's when Ma slapped me. Her hand shot out so quick, I never saw it coming. Thunder crashed again, as if the outside world was trying to cover up what Ma had just done, one sound canceling out the other, but the falsetto pitch of the slap was louder than the bass of the thunder.

I froze.

Ma half lifted her hand as if she might try to smooth away the sting, but then she put it down again. A gust of wind smacked sheets of rain against the window, and I had a crazy urge to grab the cast-iron pan from the stove and smash the glass, letting all the wind and rain howl inside.

Ma's face flushed a deep pink.

“You want to know everything?” she said at last, her chest heaving. “Fine. Your father shot a girl and came home with blood on his hands. It dripped on the floor right where you're standing, and when he told me what he'd done, I screamed so loud, you hid in the closet behind the brooms and dust mop, and I couldn't get you to come out for the rest of the night. And you know what I did, Tia? I got on my hands and knees and scrubbed that girl's blood off the floor. Took me days.”

I should have been shocked, but as soon as the words were out of my mother's mouth, I remembered. The memories blossomed like the blood that had dripped off my father's wrist.

He'd brought home the gun, wanting Ma to get rid of it, and they'd fought about whether or not she should help him because that would make her an accomplice, and if she went to prison, who would be left to take care of me?

I remembered the sounds of their voices. The sweaty, filthy smell of my father. My mother's hysterical scream. The cloying heat of the closet, and the slam of the front door when my father finally left.

The memories were all there, exactly where they had always been.

Locked inside.

I stumbled to the table and sat down hard on a kitchen chair. I waited for the tears, but they didn't come. Leaking rainwater swirled around me, but I felt parched and dry as a bone. Finally, Ma came over, and this time she really did reach out to stroke my cheek, right where it stung from the slap.

“I'm sorry, Tia,” she said at last. “I'm so, so sorry. For everything.”

She put her arms around me, and for a long time we simply held each other tight, listening to the rain. I thought I might never speak again, but eventually I forced a single word from my throat.

“Why?”

Ma seemed to understand what I meant.

“I don't know,” Ma whispered back. “I don't think your father even knows.”

We sat there in silence again, exhaustion overtaking us both. Ma shook her head. “I swore I'd never raise a hand to you,” she said. “I wish I could take it back.”

As if life gave do-overs.

We both knew better.

I curled my feet under me, trying to warm them up. “The old man,” I said at last, “was he angry? Did he hate me for going over there?”

Ma sighed. “No,” she said at last. “He said he was sorry that he scared you.” She shook her head. “I've never apologized to them. Once I sent an anonymous card that said I was sorry for their loss, but I didn't think they'd want to hear from me, and in the courtroom things were always so . . . tense.

“I should have been the one to say I was sorry, and instead there he was all these years later apologizing to
me
at the counter of the Winn-Dixie.” Her chin dropped. “Oh, Tia. I'm such a coward.”

She reached into her pocket and took out a piece of yellow paper that had been crumpled into a ball. “Mr. Morton asked me to give you this,” she said. “I was so angry, I wasn't going to tell you, but you deserve to know.” She paused. “He said he heard the Rainbow Choir sing at June Fest, and he
wondered if you might participate in their fund-raiser. He's especially interested in you singing the lead.”

She handed me the paper and ever so slowly, I unfolded the creases and smoothed it out against my leg. It was a flyer, and all around the edges were butterflies.

The Butterfly Foundation

invites you to

our annual fund-raiser at

Audubon Park

to benefit families who have been the victims of violence

August 4

12:00 to 4:00 P.M.

Food, entertainment, and fun!

I took a deep, shuddering breath, remembering the angry stares at June Fest. Someone from the Morton family had been there and I hadn't even known it? I tried to remember if I'd seen butterflies on any of the posters around the courtyard, but I couldn't recall. Why would Mr. Morton ask me to sing the lead when he'd seen me fail so spectacularly that night?

I shook my head. Maybe I'd tell Ms. Marion about the invitation, but even if the Rainbow Choir sang, I didn't plan on showing up. It was too much to ask.

I understood why my mother had crumpled up the paper. How could we possibly go to a fund-raiser organized by Danielle's family?

But another question lingered behind that one.

How could
they have invited u
s?

O
N S
ATURDAY
I went over to Keisha's place and found her on the couch watching TV in her pajamas. Her hair was sticking up, and she was watching reruns on the Cartoon Network. The TV blared, and she wouldn't turn it off even when I suggested we go up to her room and listen to music instead.

“Nah,” she said. “I'm watching this.”

“
SpongeBob
reruns?”

“Yeah.”

She was crunching on Doritos even though it was only ten a.m.

“Did you talk to Khalil?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said, popping the
p
sound. “I broke up with him, of course, and he said he was sorry and it was all Mary-Kate's fault, and he'd never do it again. Blah, blah, blah.” She rolled her eyes. “Can't trust fools like him. They say what you want to hear, and if you're stupid enough to believe it, they'll suck you right back in. But I'm not gonna be a fool twice.”

I plopped down on the couch beside her.

“That's good, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Keisha said, but she sounded hard. Then she softened a little. “What happened with your mama? Was it bad?”

“Beyond bad,” I said. “Bad doesn't even begin to cover it. We had the hugest fight ever. Ma cried. And she slapped me.”

“She did what?!”

I nodded. “Told you it was bad. But the good news is, we finally talked about my father. She told me what happened after . . . you know . . . afterward. There was stuff I hadn't remembered until she said it—horrible stuff like my dad bringing home the gun and Ma screaming when she heard what he'd done—but I'm glad I finally have my memories back.”

“Why would you
want
to remember stuff like that?” Keisha asked.

I shrugged. “I guess it's like you said when you first told me about my father being a murderer. It's better to know the truth.”

Keisha frowned. “I'm not so sure I feel that way anymore. Sometimes the truth sucks.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But without it . . . I've decided I'm going to ask Ma about visiting my dad.”

Keisha sat up. “You're gonna do
what
?!” I couldn't believe the fire in her eyes. “I thought we decided you wouldn't do
that, and now you're telling me you're going to see that . . . that . . .”

She was searching for just the right hateful word.

“He's my father,” I argued. “I thought you'd agree that I can't hide like my mom. If she says she'll take me to the prison, then I want to go.”

“Making a smart decision isn't the same thing as hiding,” Keisha said, enunciating the words. “Your father is a user and a liar, and you're giving him a signed invitation to walk all over your heart. You think he's not going to talk and talk, trying to get you to see him more often? Do you truly believe he's not going to say everything you ever wanted to hear? Why would you even think you could trust that man?”

She stood up and stormed out of the living room, and I was left sitting on the sofa with my mouth hanging open. Dwayne came in carrying Jerome and sat down on the opposite end of the couch, whistling softly through his teeth.

“Hoo-boy, we men are bad news,” he said. “Bad, bad, bad.” He bounced Jerome on one knee. “You bad news, son? 'Cause I think you're trouble just waiting to happen.” Jerome was wearing a green onesie and a hat with puppy dog ears. Dwayne turned to me. “He looks like trouble, doesn't he? I mean, look at those big, brown deceivin' eyes. Look at this bad-boy getup.”

“Da,” Jerome said, and Dwayne's eyebrows shot up.

“You hear that? What kind of lies are you spewing?”

Jerome grinned a great big drooly smile, and I laughed despite everything.

Dwayne laughed too, and then he looked at me. “Don't mind Keisha. She's a bit worked up right now, but she'll get over it. Did I hear you say you're going to ask about visiting your father?”

I nodded and Dwayne thought it over.

“I'm not going to lie,” he said. “You can't watch a woman cry the way your mama cried and not hate the source of those tears just a tiny bit. I used to watch you and Keisha so Evette could sit with your mother at the courthouse, and you got real quiet during those months. You bounced back, but never to the same point you'd started. I remember when you and Keisha were both these squirming, laughing, screaming, running-around, singing, dancing little girls with hardly a care in the world, and then . . .”

Dwayne sighed.

“I became disturbed?”

“No,” Dwayne said, poking me hard. “Loretta . . . she doesn't know all that she thinks she knows. There will always be people who want to judge, but no one knows what will come out of adversity. It's different for every single person. Some people turn hard, and others, well . . . Want to know what came out for you?”

I nodded.

“Your voice. After your father went to prison, you started
to sing like Mahalia, something deep and powerful flowing out of that tiny body. First time I heard you sing like that, I was looking around the house to see where the stereo had gotten moved to.” He laughed. “Then I came around a corner and there you were. Nearly knocked me off my feet.”

“I thought I'd always been able to sing,” I said, but Dwayne wagged his finger.

“Oh, you could always
sing,
” he said, “but before your daddy went to prison, you sang the notes, and afterward you sang with heart. Anyway,” Dwayne said, “for what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing.”

Dwayne poked me in my sternum. “You're strong, Tia. Right here at your core.” He glanced up the stairs. “My princess is strong too; she just doesn't remember it right now. But she will.”

I got up and hugged Dwayne tight, scooping Jerome into the embrace. “Thanks.”

Dwayne grinned. “Don't mention it. We men have our moments, don't we? I mean, most of the time we're just full-on rotten.” He made a mean face. “We're bad, bad Leroy Browns. Baddest men in the whole dang town.”

“Da,” Jerome said.

I smiled, feeling the shadow of a song creeping in, right where Dwayne had poked me.

I went home and for the rest of the day I tried to do normal things, but all I could think about was Keisha. Didn't feel right for us to fight. Not after all that had happened.

That night I called her cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Keisha?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's me. Tia.”

Keisha sighed. “Duh. You think I don't know your voice?” She was short and snappy, as if I'd annoyed her.

“I wanted to know if we could talk.”

Keisha was quiet.

“Listen,” I said. “I get that my father probably doesn't deserve anything—not even a visit—but he's the only father I've got.”

“Just tell me one thing,” Keisha said at last. “If you visit your father, are you planning on forgiving him? For murder? For leaving you and your mama alone? Could you really let him off the hook for all that?”

Now it was my turn to be silent.

“Well?” Keisha prompted.

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe deep down, I
do
want to forgive him. If he's sorry, I mean.”

There. I'd made my confession.

Keisha exploded. “
What?!
After what he did to that little girl and her family . . . Honestly, Tia, he's a sick, twisted
murderer.
How could you even sit in the same room with him? You're so much better off without him, and if you forgive him, it's like saying that what he did was okay. Would you forgive the men who killed that baby?”

I wanted to defend my father—say that this was an entirely different situation—but I couldn't because that wasn't true. I thought about the Raven woman. What would she think if she knew I wanted to visit my father in jail?

“I didn't say I
would
forgive him,” I said at last. “I just want to talk.”

“And you don't think he'll convince you to come back for more visits? To have some kind of relationship with him?”

“Would that be so horrible?” I said. “He probably doesn't even want to see me, but if he does . . . if my own father remembers I exist . . .” I paused. “If you weren't so angry about Khalil, you'd understand.”

“Leave Khalil out of this,” Keisha spat. “He hasn't got anything to do with your stupid butt-brained father.”

This time those words didn't sound funny at all.

“Keisha,” I sputtered. “You're being selfish. You get a hundred hugs a week from your dad and you take them all for granted. You've been treated right for twelve years and now because of this one guy—”

“Don't even go there!” Keisha shouted. “You think
I'm
being selfish? Then how come your mother was on the phone with my mom last night, crying for hours? 'Cause you sure
haven't been thinking of her. As for Khalil . . . at least the guy I fooled around with was hot, unlike Kenny, who's a total nerd. At least I've kissed
some
one.”

Keisha was hitting below the belt, and she knew it. But I could hit below the belt too. “Yeah?” I said. “And you've done a whole lot more than that, so how's it working out for you?”

We both went silent.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but Keisha sniffed loudly on the other end. “A best friend would never say that,” she said.

“A best friend wouldn't judge me for wanting to visit my father.”

“Fine,” Keisha said. “Then maybe we're not best friends anymore.”

“Maybe we're not.”

Keisha snorted. “Hope you and your dad enjoy each other.”

Then the phone went dead with a final click.