The Bernice L. McFadden Collection, page 16
Chapter Thirty-Four
Peak conditions. That’s what the weatherman said. Peak conditions and no rain for at least seven days.
Tass took that uninterrupted perfection as confirmation that it was time to go.
The children pouted.
Of course it was going to be difficult for them—her leaving so soon after Fish had died.
“We’re going to feel like orphans,” Sonny half-joked.
Tass patted his hand. “You’ll be okay. You will all be okay.”
She pulled out at sunrise. All twelve children came to see her off. They hugged and kissed her and reminded her not to talk on her cell phone while she was driving.
Sonny typed in the destination on the GPS. The digital numbers stated that she would travel 2,345 miles from point A to point B. When Tass looked at that long number, it took her breath away.
Seat belt in place, she threw the almost-new Toyota into drive and forced a confident smile as she pulled away from the curb.
After twenty miles or so, Tass thought she would turn the car around and head back home. What was she thinking? Who was she fooling? She was a sixty-six-year-old woman who had never spent a night alone in her entire life. This adventure was for a woman half her age, not someone collecting a Social Security check.
Tass began to shake.
Who had put such a silly thought in her mind?
Her eyes filled with tears.
That’s it, she belittled herself, I’ve lost my mind and not one of my children noticed.
She frantically searched the overhead signs for the next highway exit. Too nervous and distraught to take her hand off of the steering wheel to turn on the radio, Tass forced herself to think warm and happy thoughts.
She started with the day in the attic, worked her way backward to family barbecues, the birth of her first grandchild, her fortieth anniversary party, the day she and Fish made the final payment on the mortgage, the hour when she first realized she was pregnant, her wedding, summer days at the river, her first kiss …
Time slipped by, and before Tass realized it she had traveled fifty miles.
There was still time to turn back, but she no longer felt the urgent need to. Easing her hand from the steering wheel, she fiddled with the buttons until the radio came on. Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” washed over her.
Tass began to sing along.
It was August 22, 2005.
It took her four days to travel the 2,345 miles. She kept to the speed limit, and stopped often, and called Sonny to give him her exact location.
Sonny would always end the phone call with, “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
And Tass would respond, “I can’t believe it either.”
She always started driving at dawn, and by sunset she was pulling into a motel to bed down for the night. The rooms at the motels were small, the walls thin, and the cleanliness of the sheets suspect. So Tass slept in her clothes and kept the television on for company.
Chapter Thirty-Five
She arrived on the afternoon of August 26. The Toyota was caked in road dust and dead insects. Tass didn’t look much better.
After she climbed out of the car, she thanked God for her safe arrival and leaned her entire body against the side of the vehicle.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Padagonia shrieked merrily as she ran out of her house and across the road to Tass. “You made it! Oh, thank God!” Padagonia threw herself into her friend and wrapped her bony arms around her neck.
When they finally pulled apart, Tass smirked and said, “So you knew I was coming, huh?”
Padagonia offered a sheepish grin. “Sonny called me.”
“That boy,” Tass sighed.
“What did you expect? An old woman like you driving halfway across the country?”
“Old?”
The two laughed.
“Well, make yourself useful,” Tass said as she walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk.
Inside, the house was filled with shadows. Tass’s hand crept along the wall in search of the light switch.
“Gosh,” she exclaimed, “what’s that smell?”
“I painted,” Padagonia announced.
Tass hit the switch and the bright light illuminated the pale yellow walls.
“Kinda like a welcome-home present,” Padagonia said when Tass turned an astonished gaze on her. “It was depressing, now it’s cheery, don’t you think?”
Tass nodded. “Yes, it is cheery. Thank you, Paddy.”
They hauled the suitcases into the house, down the hall, past Hemmingway’s bedroom, and into Tass’s room.
“Why don’t you sleep in your mama’s room, it’s bigger,” Padagonia suggested.
“No, she died in that room … in that bed. I just can’t.”
“I understand.”
Tass walked through the house; there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. “You cleaned too?”
“Yeah, I just hit it a lick and promised it one,” Padagonia chuckled.
“This is too much, Padagonia.”
“I didn’t mind at all. This is what friends do for one another.”
They stepped out onto the porch.
“So what’s for dinner?” Tass asked as she looped her arm affectionately around her friend’s waist.
“Fried catfish and tater salad.”
“That sounds wonderful. I’ve gotta call the kids to let them know I made it here safely and then I’ll come over.”
At dinner, fatigue swooped down on Tass and she nodded off at the table.
“Go on home, sleepy-head,” Padagonia laughed, and pointed her fork at the door.
Tass’s eyes rolled open and a drowsy smile spread across her lips. “Sorry,” she managed through a yawn. “Tomorrow then?”
“Tomorrow.”
After a short lukewarm shower, Tass slipped on a flannel nightgown, wrapped herself in a quilt, and shuffled back out into the front room. Through the window, she could see Padagonia sitting on her porch, a six-pack of Pink Champale resting on the windowsill alongside her transistor radio. She was puffing on a black and tan, gazing up at the full moon.
Suddenly, Tass didn’t feel as tired and so she moved the rocking chair to the center of living room, sat down, and listened to Padagonia croon along to the music streaming from her radio.
When she woke the next morning, her entire body pulsated with the aches and pains that come along with spending a night in a wooden rocking chair.
The sun was up and there was activity on the street. She could hear a washing machine churning, the colicky cry of a teething infant, and the mournful howl of a chained dog.
Tass limped over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Padagonia was up, dressed, and muttering to herself as she frantically swept the front walk. Every so often, she would whip her entire body around and glare at the emptiness behind her.
Tass frowned and moved to another window to see what or who was irritating her friend. But the only thing that came into view was the weed-choked vacant lot alongside Padagonia’s house.
Tass was about to walk away when Padagonia swung around again and hollered, “Hey! Hey, you in there!”
The tall grass shuddered and laughter floated out.
“Kids,” Padagonia mumbled miserably. “Y’all better come out from in there! That grass is filled with snakes and rats and God knows what else!”
The laughter continued.
Padagonia rolled her eyes, sucked her teeth, and returned to her furious sweeping.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tass stepped out onto the porch and nearly slaughtered the bouquet of wild flowers someone had placed in the doorway.
She uttered a sorrowful “Oh,” and bent to retrieve the gift. Of course she thought Padagonia had put them there. But when she walked across the road to thank her, Padagonia gave her a strange look.
“Is it your birthday?”
Tass shook her head.
“Then why would I give you flowers?”
Tass blushed. “But who else?”
Padagonia shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
Tass scanned the row of houses on either side of the street.
“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” Padagonia suggested.
Tass considered the flowers and then decided she couldn’t spend time trying to figure out the who or the why. “I need to go get some food. Come along and give me some company.”
Padagonia insisted on driving her weathered, beaten Pacer. The shocks were shot and Tass swore she could feel every groove, pebble, and pothole the road offered. The radio was on and the broadcaster was talking about a tropical depression forming over the Bahamas.
“I sure would like to go there one day,” Tass commented.
“Where?”
Tass pointed at the radio. “Where he said. The Bahamas.”
They drove happily along until the store came into view and snatched the merriment out of that car.
Tass tried to look away, but couldn’t. With her eyes glued to the store she hissed, “Why’d you have to come this way?”
“Because this is the way to the Piggly Wiggly.”
Fifty years later and Bryant’s grocery store was still standing. Vacant and ghostly, it had survived high winds and treacherous storms, holding onto a life that no longer wanted it—it slouched there, plastered with advertisements and riddled with racial epithets, Bible verses, and swastikas. It stood as a reminder of the then and the now; refusing to die, it clung stubbornly to this world always, loudly insisting upon itself.
Why no one had set fire to it or the city fathers hadn’t demanded that it be bulldozed to the ground was fodder for all kinds of conversations.
Virulently racist whites wanted it to remain as a reminder to black folk that what had happened here could happen again. And black people wanted it to remain for the very same reason.
Padagonia stepped down on the gas pedal and the store became a blur outside of Tass’s window.
That evening, Tass baked four chicken thighs, two sweet potatoes, and made a pot of string beans. When she went to the door to call Padagonia for dinner, her friend was already climbing the porch steps. She had a beaten black pocketbook slung over her shoulder.
“Why do you have your pocketbook?”
“I plum forgot that tonight was bingo. You wanna come?”
“But I just made dinner.”
“We’ll eat it later.”
Tass’s stomach growled. “I gotta eat before I go anywhere.”
Padagonia grunted, “Sorry for you then. Bingo ain’t gonna wait for you to fill your belly.”
“Some friend you are!” Tass cried as Padagonia turned and started back down the steps.
After dinner, Tass pulled the rocking chair out onto the porch and sat down. The street was quiet, and a placid dark sky hung overhead. She was grateful for the serenity.
A mischievous breeze wafted across her bare arms, raising goose bumps. Tass shivered. When she rose to go inside to retrieve her sweater, she saw movement in the tall grass next to Padagonia’s house. Soon, a dark figure emerged.
The two stared at one another for some time, before the stranger raised a hand and waved. Tass waved back and waited for something more, but the man or woman—she couldn’t tell—stepped back into the grass.
Odd, she thought. The sweater forgotten, she went into the house and prepared for bed.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The next day, the 28th of August, the stranger was little more than a foggy memory. Tass’s focus that morning was on the backyard.
Hemmingway’s once beautiful garden was now a patchwork of bald spots and weeds, and a toilet for stray cats.
As a child Tass had spent plenty of hours out there, playing house and helping her mother wash and hang the sheets. Back then, the small bit of yard was lush with vegetables and a rosebush heavy with pink blossoms.
Now, all that was left from that era were a rusted washtub, hoe, and shovel.
“I’m going to need some help with this,” Tass commented aloud.
She grabbed her purse and went out to her car. Tass would take the long way to the Piggly Wiggly—she didn’t want to ever lay eyes on that store again.
At the Piggly Wiggly, Tass stood behind people pushing shopping carts loaded with cases of water and canned goods. On the drive back, she passed cars with lumber and plywood tied to the roofs.
You would think it was the end of the world, Tass laughed to herself.
Later, she and Padagonia stood in the center of the yard outfitted in floppy hats, old T-shirts, and sweatpants. Scattered at their feet were vegetable seedlings, a young rosebush, a shiny new spade, and dozens of packets of flower seeds.
The sky above their heads was as clear as any I had ever seen.
“You start over there.” Tass pointed to the far left of the yard. “And I’ll tackle this area.
They raked, dug, pulled, and planted, and in less than an hour the two women were parched and clothes soaked with perspiration.
“Water break, boss?” Padagonia cried from her side of the yard.
Tass chuckled. “I think we both need one.”
They retreated into the kitchen, where Tass filled two glasses with ice water. Padagonia drained her glass before Tass could even steal a sip from hers.
“More, please.”
Outside, the crickets hummed and the horseflies buzzed in the shade.
Padagonia rubbed her belly. “You hungry?”
“I think I could eat,” Tass said.
“I got tuna fish already made. How does that sound to you?”
“Just fine.”
They walked across the road.
After Padagonia set the plates onto the table, she sauntered over to the television.
“Judge Judy is on.”
Tass shrugged. “I guess I can watch one case.”
The hours slipped by, and soon it was five o’clock. After a commercial promoting a weight-loss drink, the news came on. A pretty blue-eyed anchorwoman told the viewing audience that the top stories that evening included a hurricane which was moving rapidly into the Gulf of Mexico.
Padagonia stood up, stretched her long arms over her head, and announced that she was going to have a drink. When she opened the refrigerator door, Tass saw that it held at least eight six-packs of Pink Champale. Padagonia grabbed one six-pack from the shelf and allowed the door to swing shut. Tass turned off the television and followed her out to the porch.
The light was slowly draining from the sky. Down the street, a group of girls played hopscotch while a tight knit of boys watched. Observing the scene, Tass was suddenly flooded with a feeling of nostalgia.
Padagonia pushed a bottle at Tass. “Want one?”
Tass wasn’t a drinker and at first declined, and then swiftly changed her mind. “Yes, I think I will have one.” She unscrewed the top and tilted the bottle to her lips. The frothy sweetness was a pleasant surprise. “That’s really good,” she declared with a smack of her lips. She rolled the cold bottle across her forehead. “It sure was hot today.”
“Yes, it was,” Padagonia said, and then, “It’s too damn quiet out here.”
She disappeared into the house and came back with her transistor radio, which she set down on the windowsill.
“It’s oldies night,” Padagonia announced as she fiddled with the antenna.
Songs sung by Martha and the Vandellas, the Supremes, and Little Richard ushered the two women back through time.
“They don’t make music like that anymore,” Padagonia remarked wistfully.
“That is true.”
Padagonia opened a fresh bottle of Champale, took three swigs, and then set the bottle down between her feet. Casting her eyes up and down the street, she let off a soft, satisfied sigh. “It’s really very beautiful here.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Good people. Christian people.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You would never think something so horrible happened in such a peaceful place.”
Tass glanced over at her friend. “What did you say?”
Padagonia reached for the bottle. “Just thinking out loud.”
They had been through it all before. Fifty years earlier, their young minds had twisted and turned with the effort of trying to understand why J.W. and Roy had done such a thing. That incident had opened up a world of horror for them. Fear and distrust surfaced where before there had been none.
J.W. and Roy didn’t just snatch the childhood away from Emmett; they stole it from every single black child in Mississippi.
Why did Padagonia have to go and make that comment? Now the evening was ruined. Tass stood to leave.
“You going?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna head in.”
“You want another Pink Champale?”
“No thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Padagonia huffed.
* * *
That night, Tass dreamed she was standing on the porch in her nightgown. Once again, the dark stranger emerged from the grass and waved. Tass waved back.
The person stepped into the moonlight and Tass could see that it was a young man. Head bowed, he inched toward the curb and stopped. He seemed to be contemplating the road. He slid his foot over the edge of the sidewalk and set the toe of his shoe against the blacktop, as if testing the temperature of bathwater. Confident, he then placed his entire foot flat on the surface. The other foot followed.
He did not walk; he lumbered like an old person or a toddler taking his first steps. When he reached Tass’s side of the street, he seemed winded and leaned against a nearby tree.
He must be sick, Tass thought, or maybe drunk.
“You all right?”
The man raised his hand and nodded.
“You sure?”
Again, the nod.
The stranger moved away from the tree and shuffled closer. He wore the night like a cape, so even in the moonlight Tass couldn’t make out his features.
“You need something?”
He opened his mouth, and Tass was sure she heard a swishing sound. No, not swishing, Tass thought, lapping, like water against a shore.
