Pieces of Why (6 page)

Ma had covered my ears when my father said he was a trucker, but I'd still heard her growl, “You're an ungrateful fool, Lyle Frank.”

I'd been so busy wondering why my father had claimed to be a truck driver when he'd never worked a steady job in his life that I hadn't said anything, and by the time Ma's hands had fallen off my ears, they were deep in a full-on fight. Years later I'd realized my dad hadn't said trucker after all. He'd said a real bad word instead, and I'd wanted to ask Ma why he'd said that, but if I even mentioned someone with the same first name as my dad, Ma would be in bed with a migraine for days.

Now the whole memory came back and all I could do was take deep, rhythmic breaths while Mary-Kate Torelo belted out the lead.

When she was done, everyone clapped and whistled, and Mary-Kate bowed. Ms. Marion cued our next song, and the choir began to sway, but I'd had enough. I slipped off the risers and into the crowd, walking straight back to the far corner.

I wanted to be alone—possibly forever—but a little while later, I felt a hand on my arm. “You feeling okay?” Dwayne asked.

I nodded as if my insides weren't churning up.

“Just got nervous,” I mumbled as the choir sang in the background. “Stage fright.”

Dwayne raised one eyebrow. “
You
got stage fright?”

I nodded again, and Dwayne folded his arms across his chest, frowning like he was thinking real hard. “You know what I like about you, Tia?” he asked at last.

I shook my head, chewing on my bottom lip.

“I like that you're a terrible liar. You know why?”

“No.”

“Because,” he said, “it means you're good at heart.”

Dwayne reached out one large, strong hand and despite all the darkness inside of me, I took hold. It was as if there was a war going on, and his little bit of good had swooped in at the last minute to save the day.

That made me think about my father. Would any part of him care that I loved Dwayne more than him? Would he be happy that I'd remembered him tonight, or sad that I'd forgotten him in the first place? Did he remember
me
?

“C'mon,” Dwayne said once the choir had finished. “Looks like my princess has found herself a prince.” He nodded toward Keisha and Khalil coming off the risers, holding hands as they slipped into the crowd. “So I guess we minions might as well go find the queen.”

He meant Ms. Evette, and he was trying to make me laugh, but I couldn't do it. Not tonight. Dusk was creeping in, the fireflies were coming out, and the sky was streaked with the remnants of a New Orleans sunset, but all I could think about was my father's face as he'd watched me and Ma walk out of the visiting room that last time.

He'd looked like the Raven woman. As if he'd lost something he could never get back, and part of him had died too.

That thought made me shiver.

Was that what it felt like to live behind bars, knowing you'd never again feel a cool breeze at night or watch fireflies light up the darkness? Knowing that your child would grow up without you, reaching out for a father's hand that could never be yours?

W
HEN
I
GOT
home, the house was dark, and I knew Ma was already in bed. Ms. Evette, Dwayne, Jerome, and Keisha saw me to my door, and Keisha hugged me before she left. She'd talked about Khalil the whole way home—how gorgeous and smart and talented he is—but now she frowned.

“Sorry about tonight,” she said. “Guess I was wrong about no one else knowing about your dad. Are you mad I didn't hang out with you?”

I shook my head. “I'm just glad you and Khalil had a good time.”

She grinned like a lit sparkler. “We did. He's so amazing.”

“Tell me more about it tomorrow?”

Keisha nodded, and I was relieved to slip away. When I stepped inside, I triple-locked the door, checking the chain twice before I shut off the outside lights. Ma had left a plate of food with a note in the kitchen, but I still couldn't eat, so I stuck it in the refrigerator. Then I went into my bedroom
and put on my softest pajamas: the ones with the yellow stars that I'd mostly outgrown.

It was strange the way my body was growing, but I still felt the same. Sometimes I wanted to stay me forever, never wanted to outgrow my old star pajamas, but other times I was so scared of getting left behind. Keisha had already started her period, but I hadn't. What if mine never came?

I wondered if Danielle had ever gotten her period, but it felt wrong to wonder about such a personal thing. Still . . . did she ever have a boyfriend? A best friend? What had she wanted to be when she grew up?

Made me feel lonely, so I went into Ma's room and climbed into bed with her, squeezing next to her thin frame. Hours later, I finally fell asleep listening to the sound of her breathing, real steady, like a metronome keeping the beat.

When I woke, Ma was already up and the mattress felt too big. I rolled around for a few minutes, then got up, and went into the kitchen. Ma was in her bathrobe standing at the sink doing dishes, but when I came out she stopped, walked over, and kissed me on the forehead.

“How did it go last night?”

Horrible. The worst
night ever.

“Tia? I asked you a question.”

“What?” I glanced up. “Good.”

Ma nodded, as if
good
were enough information. “Now, what do you want for our feast?”

Saturday morning feasts were our tradition. Ma went to work at the grocery store later on Saturdays, so we cooked a huge breakfast and stayed in our pajamas for as long as possible.

“Waffles?” she prompted. “And maybe some orange slices and sausages?”

I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn't feel like having a feast today, but Ma was already getting her old CD player down from the top of the refrigerator. No one else I knew listened to CDs, but Ma still used the same player she'd had since I was a baby. She put on Nanci Griffith, her favorite bluegrass singer. Usually I sang along and Ma would listen and smile. Sometimes she hummed and every now and then she'd break into a line of song, as if she didn't realize what she was doing. But now we were quiet as she cracked the eggs into the flour and sugar. She always took the time to make the waffles from scratch.

What would she say when I told her that I knew what my father had done? I wanted to scream at her for not telling me everything, but how could I yell at someone who worked every spare minute to keep us from falling apart?

Ma stopped and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She looked exhausted. Other people had hobbies, or at
least they watched TV shows—
something
—but Ma had nothing except two jobs and Saturday mornings.

Finally, I couldn't stand it.

“Sit down, Ma,” I said. “Let me finish up.”

Ma paused, looking between me and the waffle maker, but she didn't argue. “Be sure to spray it extra good,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table and propping her slippered feet onto a chair. I nodded and took two plates out of the cupboard. I peeled an orange and pulled apart the segments, their fragrance squirting into the air in a light orange mist. I chewed my bottom lip, wondering what I should say.

“Ma,” I said at last.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we could talk about . . . the past? I mean . . . about—”

All the color drained from Ma's face. Her feet slid off the chair and she looked like she might be sick. I could see the pinch around her eyes that happened right before a migraine hit.

“I meant, could we look at your old pictures?”

Ma's breath released in a whoosh of relief. “Again?” she said, cracking a thin smile.

“It's been a long time,” I argued, forcing the words out even as my heart broke. “And I want to see the ones of Grammy and Grandpa.”

Ma stood up. “You gotta use more spray than that,” she said, watching over my shoulder. “Sure. I'll go get the box.”

Ma kept all her photos in a shoebox under her bed. They were worn and bent in places from us looking at them so often. She disappeared for a second, then came back and set the box onto the table while I finished up the waffles.

I really did like looking at the pictures, so before I knew it, I was as caught up as Ma. We riffled through the box while we ate, taking our time examining each photo between syrupy bites, wiping our fingertips on washcloths, and being extra careful not to let the syrup drip.

I loved the pictures of Ma as a teenager. She was usually posing with her hip jutted to one side or her mouth in a pout. Her hair was teased high on her head, and Ma laughed about how much hairspray she'd used to make it stay up. She looked so beautiful in those pictures—light and free, like all she did was laugh.

Hard to imagine.

I wondered if there was a picture of my father in that box, but I'd never dared to ask. Ma rooted around until she found a photo of her parents. They stood in front of their house on Felicity Street, Grandpa with a big, round belly and Grammy with a stick-thin frame. Grandpa smiled like someone had just told a joke, and Grammy's eyes sparkled.

I wished I had known them. Grandpa died not long after
Ma graduated from high school, so I'd never met him, and Grammy passed away when I was small.

“They were so kind,” Ma said. “Your grandmother sang like an angel. You sound just like her. Sometimes when I close my eyes . . .” Ma breathed in deep. “I love it when you sing,” she said, “even if I don't always make it to your concerts. You know that, right? I bet you were spectacular last night.”

I tightened my hands into fists and felt my heart racing, too fast and too hard. Ma didn't even know I hadn't sung.

“Ma,” I blurted, “tell me about my father.”

Ma had been sipping orange juice, but now she choked on it. She coughed the way people do when something has gone down the wrong pipe, hacking so hard I thought she might throw up.

“No,”
Ma said between coughs.

She stood up and took her plate to the sink. She was still for a long time, leaning against the counter, and then she closed her eyes. “This isn't a good time. I have to get dressed for my shift.” She was angry. “You could have given me some warning.”

“Please.”
How could Ma and I share the same secret without ever talking about it?

“No,” Ma said again. “I've told you before, there's no point in bringing up the past. You know all there is to know.”

Another lie.

I watched Ma disappear into her room to put her uniform
on, knowing that when she came out, her shoulders would be slumped and her eyes would be flat. She emerged a while later, set for work. For a few minutes she bustled around the kitchen without saying anything, and then she stepped up to the front door. “I'm pulling a double tonight,” she said, one hand on the doorknob, “so don't wait up.”

Guilt made my stomach churn.

I'd spoiled the only time all week when she was happy.

O
NCE MA
was gone, the house was quiet.

I tossed my dishes into the sink with a loud clatter, not sure who I was more frustrated with: me or Ma. Why wouldn't she tell me the truth? And why couldn't I make her?

I kicked at a bag of foam peanuts, spilling some onto the floor, then picked up the shoebox and turned it upside down. Pictures flew everywhere, fluttering across the linoleum. I watched them fall, wanting to stomp on them, but instead I knelt and picked them up one by one, placing them back in the box.

There had to be a picture of my father in there. Just one.

I'd seen most of the photos a hundred times, but a few were unfamiliar—the ones Ma kept stashed at the bottom. But none of them were of him.

Where was he?

Ma had married him, they'd had me, we'd been a family, lived together in this very house. Was it possible that a
person could be absent from an entire lifetime of photographs? I grabbed the box and hurled it across the kitchen.

When it landed, the pictures I'd just put back spilled out and one of them slid under the refrigerator. I grabbed the yardstick, got down on my hands and knees, and guided it out, and that's when I saw the second photo. It was a three-by-five color snapshot of my parents sitting on the steps of their high school. My father, his dark hair trimmed short, was laughing, one arm around my freckle-faced mother, pulling her close. Ma was looking up at him, smiling so big, I hardly recognized her. And he was looking back, grinning as if he'd never seen anyone so beautiful.

I stared at the photo.

Where was the evil? This person had ended up committing murder and had gone to jail for life. Shouldn't badness be something you could see coming?

Yet, here he was.

My father.

Happy.

Dwelling has a way of muddling time. One minute it's early and you have the whole day ahead of you, and the next, that day is drifting away. I stared at the photograph of my father, trying to decide what I should do with it. I decided to go to Keisha's house, figuring maybe I'd show her the picture. But
when I walked out, instead of turning toward her place, I went left, toward the baby's house.

I thought about the Raven woman's face in the window, and I couldn't help wondering if she'd ever feel happy again. Maybe she'd smile and laugh, but wouldn't there always be something missing? Years from now, when she looked through her photos, would she ache for the ones that weren't there?

When I got to the house, it was quiet and still, and I guessed right away that it was empty. I supposed that made sense. There were probably all sorts of baby things inside. Reminders of how unlivable life could be.

I thought about turning around, but I didn't.

Sweat dripped down my back, and the soft blue T-shirt and shorts I'd pulled on that morning clung to my skin. I realized my hands were clenched tight, and the imprints of my fingers made deep red grooves in my palms. They stung as I unclasped them. I sat down beside the memorial fence, pulling my bare knees into my chest. After a long while, I took the photo of my father out of the pocket of my shorts.

All that h
appiness, ruined.

I remembered Danielle Morton's huge smile. She'd had no idea that she would end up murdered. Did her family and friends still miss her every day, even after eight years had gone by?

I wanted to rip the photo to shreds, but I couldn't do it.

This was the only picture I had. Even if Ma had kept another one, it wasn't like I could ask her for it. Then again, maybe my father didn't deserve to be remembered.

I studied the memorial fence. The candles had been knocked over, and some of the teddy bears had fallen down, so I set my father's photo on the sidewalk and walked over. I straightened each item, then retied a sagging ribbon closer to the iron filigree. A section of chain link had been set up to hold messages and photographs, but it had slumped, so I stood it upright and plugged some of the cards, handwritten prayers, and small crosses deeper into the holes where people had wedged them.

Trash was scattered in the yard—small bits of wrapping and debris. I gathered each piece, slowly and meticulously, and set them in the trash can by the side of the house. Then I swept the sidewalk with a broken broom that had been sitting beside the door. The handle was cracked in the middle, so it took me a long time. All the while, the sun was hot on my back and my hair loosed itself from my elastic and fell into my face.

A soft hitching noise made me look up, and that's when I saw the Raven woman standing in her doorway. A long black skirt billowed around her legs, blowing in the breeze.

Our eyes met and my heart skipped a beat.

At first I thought she might turn around and go back inside, but instead she walked down the few steps to the
sidewalk and opened her front gate. It creaked on rusty hinges, the sound piercing the humid air. She came over and crouched beside me, reaching for a stuffed elephant that had gotten ground into the mud at the bottom of the fence. Ever so carefully, she brushed the dirt off its soft gray surface. Then she touched her finger to her tongue, rubbing the elephant's tiny glass eyes.

“There,” she said, in an accent so thick, I could hardly make out the word. “Now it will be . . .” She seemed to search her mind. “Best?”

I nodded blankly.

I might have said a million different things, but the woman reached out and touched my hair, her fingers trailing a long, unruly strand.

“Pretty,” she said, smiling sadly.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and she looked tired. I wondered how she'd managed to get out of bed, and I was about to say something about being sorry for what had happened, but then she did something I didn't expect.

She reached out and picked up the photo of my father.

“No,” I sputtered. “Don't.”

My hand grabbed for hers, but she brushed me aside. Carefully, she hung my father's picture on the fence between a photo of her son and a hand-painted sign that read
LOVE NEVER DIES
.

“Please,” I pleaded. “He shouldn't be up there.”

I reached out, but the woman stopped my hand.

“Stay,” she said firmly.

She patted my hand twice as if to ensure that I wouldn't remove my father's photo, and then she turned and walked up the steps. I watched her pause at her door and look back at me with a knowing, exhausted look. She thought I was grieving, like her. I couldn't let her think that, but how could I tell her the truth?

At last, she disappeared inside, leaving me to stare at my father's picture, knowing he was looking back at me from the last place he belonged.