Like Vanessa, page 9
“Tell you what.” She points that scrawny little finger of hers. “Since we have Thanksgiving break this week, how about we go shopping on the weekend? Do you have any holiday plans?”
Thoughts turn into words. Words turn into lies. “My family has a big turkey dinner. At my grandma’s house. Out in the country.”
The lie greets me like an old family member who comes to visit but won’t go back home. There is no grandma to celebrate the holidays with. Both of them passed away before I was born. And there ain’t no house in the country. Though in my dreams, that’s where I sometimes picture Mama waiting for me.
The only family I’ll have with me on Thanksgiving is Pop Pop and TJ. Most of Pop Pop’s people are either down South or out West. And Daddy’s family stopped having us over during the holidays years ago. They didn’t feel like locking up their liquor cabinets from Pop Pop. They turned their noses up at TJ ’cause “caring about fashion and hair just ain’t normal for a young man.” And I’m sure it took every bite of the tongue to stop them from telling me I needed to fix myself up. It never mattered that Pop Pop lost his leg in battle or knows the Bible inside and out. It doesn’t matter that TJ’s talented and can bring the whole congregation to their knees with that voice of his. And they couldn’t care less about my good grades, not when I walk around looking the way I do. To them we are the broken pieces of the family. We are the left behinds.
Daddy doesn’t stick around for the holidays. Says he’s gotta work extra hours ’cause he planning something big. But I think he just doesn’t want to be around us, especially at the dinner table, where there’s always one empty seat.
“Okay, maybe we can go shopping on Saturday then. Do you like Bamberger’s?”
Who doesn’t like Bamberger’s? What she should be asking is if I can afford to shop there. The people in my neighborhood hang out in downtown Newark, but I ain’t never heard of nobody actually shopping in Bamberger’s. That’s for people with money, like the folks who work at the Prudential building. Those people make the big bucks. People like me, from Grafton Hill, simply walk past the window displays to check out what’s inside, but we never buy anything. Bamberger’s is one of the flyest department stores in downtown Newark. I pass by it every now and then, especially during the holidays because that store has the nicest Christmas displays. There’s even a merry-go-round in the store where you can take pictures with Santa Claus. But I’ve never actually been inside. I can only imagine how much those clothes are gonna cost.
“I’d love to, Mrs. Walton, but my folks don’t get paid until after the holiday.”
“No, no, this’ll be my treat. In fact, I have a little surprise for you.” She smiles. “And how about we keep this between us and your family? We wouldn’t want to make the other contestants jealous. What do you say?”
I never had a teacher take me shopping before, let alone buy me anything. Why is this woman being so nice to me? Because she missed out on her Miss America dreams?
“Um…” My voice comes out all shy-like. “I mean I guess I can go, only if I can pay you back. I still don’t get why you’re doing all of this.”
“Oh, hush!” Mrs. Walton throws her hand in the air. “I already told you. You’re on the brink of something big, Vanessa. I didn’t get that chance when I was younger. I’m happy that I’ll be around to see you make your mark. That, my dear, is payment enough.”
She pulls out a sheet of fancy blue stationery. “Here. Take this note to your grandfather. Ask him to sign it so you have permission to go, and I will pick you up Saturday. Let’s say nine in the morning?”
“Um, sure,” I say.
Mrs. Walton puts on her ice-blue wool coat. “I can park and come get you at your apartment if you like.”
I can imagine the scene now: Mrs. Walton cruises into the projects in her fancy pastel-blue Chevrolet Celebrity with chrome rims. She walks up the eight flights of stairs and picks me up at my door. When we return to her car, it’s sitting on cinder blocks, and all that’s left is a shell. The wheels, doors, seats, steering wheel, speakers, and radio are all missing and probably on their way to some drug dealer’s house so he can sell them.
“That’s okay. I’ll just meet you downstairs,” I say quickly.
“Great. Have a happy Thanksgiving, Vanessa.”
“Thanks, you have a nice one too.”
I grab my things and head home, painfully reminded that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. That tomorrow there will be two empty seats at the table, yet again. That really there ain’t much to give thanks for at all.
A Thankless Thanksgiving
The only thing that takes my mind away from what little food we have to eat is the fact that the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade is on. It’s my favorite part of the holiday. From the time it starts to the time it goes off, I am sucked into the pageantry of it all. Trumpets blare and bands march in uniform steps, and Miss America herself, Vanessa Williams, stands on top of a beautifully decorated float and for me, is the highlight of the whole parade.
Her fur coat is bad to the bone. Underneath she wears a sequined top and twist-tie skirt. Times like this, I sure wish we had a color television so I could get the full effect of her outfit. But nonetheless, my girl is looking fly!
“Go on, Miss America! With yo’ fine self!” Pop Pop screams at the television, like Vanessa Williams can actually hear him.
All around, people are yelling her name as she waves to the crowd. What I would give to live a moment like that. To have someone make me feel beautiful, like Miss America.
When the parade is done, it’s time to get creative in the kitchen. There are a few cans of Spam in the pantry, along with some mixed vegetables, and a couple of rotting onions in the refrigerator. Things we never run out of are sugar, flour, and cornmeal.
I scoop the Spam into a serving bowl and add two eggs and seasoning salt, and I chop up the last few pieces of old bread we have. I blend all the ingredients together real good and then form the Spam into the shape of turkey drumsticks. They almost look like the real thing. There’s enough to make six drumsticks. Hey, that’s better than last year! We only had enough cans to make three. I place them in the oven and heat them at 350 degrees for thirty-five minutes until they’re crispy on the outside and soft in the middle.
While that’s cooking, I pick at the rotting parts of the onions. The outside of the onions is varying shades of greens and browns with white patches of fuzz, but on the inside the flesh is bright and good enough to eat. I wonder what Miss America will eat for Thanksgiving. One thing’s for sure, she doesn’t have to pick through no spoiled onions. Miss America probably gets a full spread with candlelight and flowers on the table and real fancy china to eat her food on.
I cut the onions into perfect circles, toss them in some flour, and throw them in a pan with a little bit of oil that I saved from the last time I fried chicken. The scent of the onion rings travels throughout the whole apartment.
The can of mixed vegetables is our last one before Pop Pop gets his check. God, the first of the month can’t come soon enough. I throw a little salt in the saucepan with the vegetables.
“Ooh-weee, it sho’ smells good in here, girl!” Pop Pop hobbles in just as I’m finishing up.
The table is set as festive as I can get it. In the center there’s a turkey I made out of paper towels, and beside each plate, I fold pieces of toilet paper into the shape of a feather. This is about as much Thanksgiving as I can create from what little we got.
If I had a mother, our Thanksgiving dinner table would look a lot different. There’d be no way that she’d allow me to serve turkey-leg-shaped Spam balls. Mama would’ve roasted us a big turkey, even if she had to go out to some remote woods and kill the dang thing herself. There would have been macaroni and cheese, collard greens with smoked ham hocks, and sweet-potato pie with a side of vanilla ice cream for dessert.
TJ comes into the kitchen, and we gather at the table to say our family prayer in unison.
Father in heaven,
sustain our bodies with this food,
our hearts with true family ties,
our souls with thy truth,
for Christ’s sake,
Amen.
We all stare at our meal and then at each other in silence. Pop Pop breaks it by saying, “Let’s dig in. Nessy sho’ outdid herself.”
“Yeah. Looks real good, Nessy.” TJ says.
The lie pierces deep inside my heart. There ain’t nothing good about this. The two empty chairs stare at me, taunting me. Daddy doesn’t care to be here with us. He’d rather be working, rather be away from us. From me. And this food isn’t good. It’s barely enough.
The need for escape tugs at me harder than ever before. When I saw Vanessa Williams on that television screen today, I was reminded that there’s hope. That leaving is possible. That maybe one day I too can make it to the Miss America stage. Win twenty-five thousand dollars like she did and bounce up outta this jungle. Go somewhere with a house big enough for all of us: TJ, Pop Pop, Daddy, and even Mama. She’d come back if she knew that we could be together again somewhere real nice where the sun always shines and the grass is green and the air smells of honey.
Vanessa Williams ain’t never done a pageant before Miss America. Like me. And she had everything standing in her way. They ain’t never let no black girl win before. That crown wasn’t meant for her. That Miss America dream was for white girls only. But Vanessa didn’t cave. Could I one day do the same thing? ’Cause like Daddy and Curtis said, Vanessa ain’t even all that black. My black is blacker than hers will ever be. Darker than the deepest crater on earth. Could the world see past that? See me as beautiful too?
November 26, 1983
Water
The tide rolls in angry like a bull,
pulls me out to sea.
Body fighting,
waves growing,
arms flailing,
earth all-knowing.
Time is no longer mine.
I sink deeper,
slower,
until the water calls me home.
Dear Darlene,
Last night I dreamed of water. Tell me this. How is it that something that feeds the earth with life can kill you just the same?
—Nessy
The Case of the Rusty Tiara
When Saturday morning comes, I wake up extra early to figure out what the heck I’m going to wear for my shopping trip with Mrs. Walton. I can’t go to Bamberger’s in overalls and a sweatshirt!
The whole house is quiet except for the trickle of the water coming from the shower in the bathroom. Daddy must be getting ready for work. Lord knows when he’ll be back. I swear that man is a horse. Work, eat, sleep. Repeat.
I gotta find a way to make me look halfway decent today. Once I read in a magazine that you can make lipstick by mixing Kool-Aid with petroleum jelly. I decide to go with that, but first I need some gear.
I tiptoe into TJ’s room to check out his closet. He’s knocked out on the bed, snoring, mouth wide open, drool spilling out of the corner. Any other day I’d play a prank on him, like the time I poured a packet of hot mustard in his mouth and then ran back to my bed. (Best prank ever!) But today is too important to focus on silly stuff.
TJ’s closet has a split personality. The front is full of men’s church suits and street clothes. Tucked behind that, it’s filled with all his original designs. I find a black faux-leather jacket with lots of silver zippers, almost like the jacket that Michael Jackson wears in the “Beat It” video. Next I grab a silver, shimmery shirt and a black wraparound skirt. I already have black pantyhose and my black combat boots. TJ even has a jewelry chest. I grab a pair of silver cross earrings, and my look is complete.
“Where you going this early in the morning, big head? And stealing my stuff too!”
Jewelry and clothes are spilling out of my arms. “I’m headed to Bamberger’s with Mrs. Walton.” I can barely hold in how excited I am.
“Ooh, big stuff. I sure hope you picked the right outfit. You can’t be looking crazy around them white folks!”
I hold up what I picked out, and he gives me a nod of approval.
I throw the things on my bed and get ready to wash up, but Daddy is still in the shower, taking his sweet time. So I decide to go to the kitchen to grab the Kool-Aid, but as I pass Daddy’s room I swear I hear something. Soft and whispery like the wind. And my feet kinda stop short, like my slippers done filled up with concrete. What’s Daddy keeping from me behind those doors? And why for so long? Curiosity takes over, and from that moment, time moves like light. Pushing my feet past the locked room, past Pop Pop snoring on the couch, and into the kitchen hallway, I soon forget what I needed in the first place. Next thing I know, I got a hanger from the closet in my left hand and a butter knife from the sink in my right. Like wings, my feet fly me to Daddy’s door.
You remember what I showed you? Beatriz’s voice creeps deep inside my brain. And I am transported to the memory of her breaking into Junito’s room. In this moment Vanessa the good girl does not exist. She is sneaky and conniving, and I do not like the way it feels. But at the same time, the rush takes over as I rig the hanger in the doorjamb and softly unclick the bottom lock. I feel one step closer. But closer to what?
The first and last time I saw Daddy’s room was when we moved here when I was five. It’s tiny inside. A twin-size bed with ratty gray sheets is pressed against the wall. A small dresser with a lonely lamp on top is placed beneath the window. Colorless, lifeless walls. No pictures. No family. No love. My room is so much bigger and better looking than this dungeon.
In the bathroom the shower is still running. Just enough time to do a little digging. The top dresser drawer whispers to me. Open me, Vanessa. A large cookie tin that says “Royal Dansk” stares back at me. My favorite cookies! I open the tin, ready to steal a few of the butter-flavored ones, praying Daddy won’t notice any are gone, praying he won’t realize I broke in here in the first place. Except there aren’t any cookies. Just a rusty tiara and the yellow envelope that came in the mail that day. Whatever was inside that envelope is long gone. What did Daddy do with the letter? And why would he hide this from me?
The tiara, dainty and petite with several stones missing, is delicate in the palm of my hand. Why would Daddy have this? Maybe I used to play dress-up with it as a little girl? Still, why would he care to keep it when he barely has two words to say to me now?
The sound of Daddy pulling back the shower curtain echoes throughout the apartment. I stuff the envelope in my housecoat pocket and put the tiara back in the cookie tin. Next thing I know, I dart outta his room, push the bottom lock in, and slip into the kitchen before he catches me.
“Dang, girl, you ain’t dressed yet?” TJ’s voice scares the living daylights out of me. “And what boogeyman are you trying to kill with those things?”
He’s sitting at the table, eyes half open, clutching a cup of tealess tea. I realize that I still have the hanger and butter knife in my hands.
“Umm…I’m going now.” My voice is shaky. “I was just clearing some stuff out of my room before I go.”
“Well, don’t take your sweet time in the bathroom, sucking up all the water from the shower and the sink like you always do. Sometimes I don’t understand you, girl.”
And then I do what comes naturally. Smile. Hold it in. He got his secrets. I got mine too.
TJ places his cup on the counter and walks back to his room.
By the time I’m done washing up and getting dressed, Daddy is gone for the day. The dungeon is sealed yet again. I take a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. What I see on the outside can’t make up for how I feel on the inside. Blind. Somewhere in that cookie tin was the truth, but I couldn’t see it. What did I miss?
The image staring back at me shows that the Kool-Aid trick worked. My lips are cherry red and glossy. The clip-on cross earrings squeeze the life out of my earlobes, but beauty is pain, right? My hair is a different story. I dip my head in the sink, rinse out the conditioner I left in overnight, and ring my hair dry with a towel. My damp hair curls up a little, and I throw on a thick headband. I got no time to fuss with this bush. It’s almost nine o’clock, and I gotta run down eight flights of stairs. I’ve been trucking up and down those stairs at least four times a day. Not to mention TJ and his drill-sergeant walks around Grafton. No wonder my clothes don’t fit!
I grab the note from Mrs. Walton and go to Pop Pop, passed out on the couch. When I pat his face to wake him up, he just snores even louder.
“Pop Pop,” I whisper softly in his ear.
“Don’t go near that rock! It could be a grenade!” Pop Pop bolts upright and covers his ears with his hands.
His forehead is covered in sweat, and he breathes out hard before staring me square in the eyes. There’re ghosts in Pop Pop’s eyes. Trapped behind the speckles of gray and green.
“Another war dream?” I ask, knowing he never likes to talk about it.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Pop Pop lies. “What you got there, Nessy?”
“Mrs. Walton’s taking me shopping downtown to get some things for the pageant, remember? You gotta sign the permission slip for me to go.”
Pop Pop smacks his lips together and wipes the sweat from his brow. “Downtown, huh?” he mutters. “Hold on, and let me put my leg on. I’m ’a go with y’all.” Pop Pop shuffles to get up.
“Um, that’s okay. You can hang out with us on a different day. This is a girls’ day. I just need you to sign this, and I’ll be back later this afternoon.”
“But what about choir practice, Nessy?”
“It’s just one practice. Please, Pop Pop.”
“Okay, fine, but you ain’t missing church tomorrow.”
“Promise.”
Pop Pop lets out a slow yawn, and his eyes roll back in his head. He leans over and reaches inside his prosthetic leg and hands me three dollars.
