Sandrine's Letter to Tomorrow

Part One, Pages 50 — 53

I woke confused by the window on my right instead of left, the heavy plaid curtains and the closet door across from the foot of the bed. The air smelled like pepper, garlic and onions and I heard water running, cabinets closing, a chair pulled across the floor and women's voices. I lifted the plaid curtain with one finger, saw the wall and blacked out window next door and couldn't stop my smile. Slowly, I felt the softness of my own bed and the space around me, recognized the faded pink wallpaper and the bare hint of green leaves and white flowers that used to be there, and breathed in the smell of actual cooking. Then my heart jumped — I thought I'd slept all day and was smelling dinner. I heard Mama's voice, then Mother Dear's answering. I sat up and put my ear to the wall.

"All the help I need is sleeping in the bed like she got some maid to clean up that living room. Shit, rich people sleep, poor people work. And women with children missing do not have parties."

"It wasn't a party, Dear," Mama said tightly, "just some — "

"Like the welfare slut down the block has friends? You 'bout to get yourself knocked up and left on your ass again?"

Then my door flung open, the doorknob cracked into the wall and Mama stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, a long metal straining spoon sticking out of one fist like an extension of her arm. "Get up."

"I am up."

"Get in this kitchen now!" she said like I'd curled under the sheet or said the last thing I would ever do was help her. Dear stood behind Mama, arms folded, half her mouth and both eyes smiling as Mama stomped away from the door muttering and shaking her head. Dear always seemed happier when Mama had just yelled at me or I was doing chores. It probably galled her I'd been back almost twenty-four hours and she hadn't seen me clean, wash, cut, stack or dust anything.

I snatched a t-shirt and pair of cut-offs from the suitcase still open on the floor and hurried into them, zipping and snapping my shorts in the hall. When I realized which shirt it was I was already in the kitchen — Hot Stuff. I turned to go change when Dear said, "And where are you going?"

Mama scowled over her shoulder and I thought she'd say something about the t-shirt but instead she pointed at Dear who, with a full smile that didn't seem at all happy, gave me the knife in her hand and left me the potatoes to cut into the huge soup pot heating on the stove. I stood on a stool to be high enough to drop in the chunks of potato without getting stung with almost-boiling water. Mama and Dear huddled over the sink, cutting up chicken and fish, Dear talking non-stop and Mama sighing, pursing her lips, once in awhile holding her eyes shut but saying little. As soon as I finished the potatoes, I set another big pot of water on to boil for macaroni, grated two pounds of cheese, and cut up onions and pickles. It felt like Thanksgiving with different food and when I opened my mouth to ask whose birthday it was or if we were selling plates like the lady across the street did Friday nights, Dear or Mama would hand me something to wash, peel, stir or chop. I didn't get to brush my teeth until folks started showing up, hugging Mama and Dear and patting me on the head. In the bathroom mirror I looked flushed in the cheeks and pale everywhere else, my hair frizzy on top but stuck to the sides of my face and neck. I knew if I went out looking like that Mama or Dear would pinch me by the shoulder or grab the back of my head and hiss in my ear about looking so trifling. I worked fast, brushing teeth with one hand and yanking out knots in my hair with the other.

By two o'clock there were people everywhere — an uncle and male neighbors on the front steps and porch, drinking cans of beer and talking loud, folks in the living room and hall, some kids bouncing on my bed, women filling the kitchen with the radio and their voices and heat from the stove and moving around each other to fill the table with food, people and kids even in the little square of yard we had. Mama's little sister, Auntie Z, was in from Baton Rouge and as I tried to squeeze past her, she grabbed the back of my neck and pressed me against her so hard I breathed the cotton of her t-shirt into my nose. "Oooh, little girl, I am so glad you're home," she said. She leaned me away and smiled big down into my face. "We thought we'd never see you again."

In the yard, Uncle Frank stood over the barbecue grill, so sweaty even his close-cropped hair dripped. The yard filled up behind me with people coming to get barbecued chicken to pile on plastic plates with squares of baked macaroni, lumps of potato salad, fried fish and slices of bread. Hands clapped on my shoulders, and I got my cheeks pinched a few times, but by the time I turned to see who, it was a confusion of dresses, shirts and bare arms in all shades of dark brown. There was no room to do anything but sit with the other kids eating. I felt like I'd been hungry for weeks and filled my plate three times, Mama smiling at me over and between heads each time.

By dusk, half the adults had gone but the ones still there looked like they'd settled in — Uncle Frank and Uncle Jerry were in front of the TV in the living room with some of Mama's friends yelling at wrestling and drinking more beer. The few parties I got to be around, at Christmas, on Mother's Day, at Easter, always ended with a few of Mama's friends still around, the TV on, her friends looking at each other waiting for the others to leave and usually I fell asleep before it was decided and only found out in the morning who stayed by seeing which car was left on the block or by studying the back walking out the door and down the stairs.