The rain fell slantwise to beat against the picture window in the front room. In the next room over, Dear was dying. Cleo watched the water run in rivulets down the glass into the flowerbed just below. The birds of paradise seemed to swoon, blossoms bobbing on their stalks like the neck of a tragic actress in one of Dear’s stories. Cleo turned to look at a candy dish on the coffee table. It was filled with M&Ms colored pastel for Easter, although Pentecost had ended weeks ago.
Cleo’s dust-colored hair was parted in the middle—even though this gave her a hangdog look—and pulled into two tight pigtails clamped down at both ends by mother-of-pearl barrettes. Sitting still, except for a subtle pendulation of her Mary Janes underneath the velvet lip of the sofa, she watched big brown aunties with strong arms bustle into the kitchen. Teacups and saucers—even the good china with the little blue boats—were piling up along the kitchen counter, something that Dear never would have allowed had she even the power to raise her voice.
Thunder pealed just as the grandfather clock struck one. Cleo stood and sidled past Auntie Joyce and Auntie Lou—two of her grandmother’s sisters—who were talking in low, musical voices about growing up with Momma-Dear. Auntie Joyce dunked a chunk of moist, heavy cake into her teacup. Auntie Lou smiled, dabbing a handkerchief at her eye and said to Auntie Joyce, “This one,” she waved a hand at Cleo, “is always so well behaved. Not like them other hellions.” Auntie Joyce murmured agreement through her mouth of cake.
Not sure how to respond, Cleo turned and walked down the long shadowy hallway towards the backroom. In the backroom there was an enormous old-fashioned floor model television covered with black and white photos in just tarnished silver frames. Her daddy’s sabres, awarded to him at graduation from the Academy, hung on a wall above an overstuffed couch covered with a crocheted afghan. Cleo fell onto the couch, letting her arm dangle off the side as if it were a slow-moving raft drifting down a jungle choked river. She made quiet foghorn sounds while staring at the curved black glass of the television. It reminded her of an insect’s eye. Above the television and its phalanx of photos, Cleo could see a fig tree planted too close to the house through a thin space where the heavy curtains did not quite meet. As the rain beat down, leaves scraped against the window like a cat asking to be let in.
A few summers before, Cleo had come to stay with her great grandmother for a few weeks. Dear’s backyard seemed endless. The yellow house was once the main house of an orchard, and there were still nearly two acres of semi-wild verdant land for Cleo and her numerous cousins and second cousins to explore. Citrus trees heavy with fruit. Fig trees with tiny wasps buzzing around them. A cracked birdbath surrounded by geraniums. Sweet pea plants that would flower and droop with pods, whose contents Cleo and the cousins would fling at each other, screaming and running through the tall grass. But the heart of the backyard, and the fixation of the cousins’ fascinations, was a grotto with a life-sized Virgin Mary, eyes closed, arms outstretched. The paint on her face had been weathered and re-painted many times over, and it had a nubbly texture and blue-white color that reminded Cleo unpleasantly of cold grits. The cousins would dare each other to touch her. That summer, feeling the bravery of her five years, Cleo climbed atop the prie-dieu, stood on her toes and reached up to stroke the Virgin’s bumpy face with her index finger. The Virgin’s eyes opened. It stared at her with one green eye, and one blue.
Cleo’s heart beat heavy and fast at the memory, and she abandoned her sofa-raft, leaving the backroom for the kitchen. Her grandmother stood next to the ancient stove humming a hymn. Rain-washed light filtered in from above the sink. A tall, battered pot squatted over two of the stove’s six burners. In a box on the floor nearby, blue crabs scuttled and prodded each other with rubber-banded claws. The rings on Nana’s fingers caught the light as she brought a knife down to chop the trinity of celery, onion, and bell-pepper for the gumbo. “It’s my Baby Dumpling,” Nana said in a false-cheerful voice without turning.
Cleo, not yet nine, bristled at the nickname, but answered in her sweetest voice. “Hi, Nana. I was wondering if there was anything I could help with?” The crabs became more boisterous, as if in answer.
“You’re growing tall.” There was a sad pause. “Wanna stir the roux while I chop?” Nana asked.
“Yes, please.” Cleo reached up to grab the handle of the wooden spoon resting against the lip of the tall pot.
“Careful, dumpling, your mama would never speak to me again if any splashed up and burnt ya.” Nana’s knife sliced a brown onion in half. Cleo stood on her toes to peer into the pot; the roux was darkening past her own skin tone into a richer brown.
“Dear used to make the best gumbo.” Nana pulled out the seeds and membrane from a bell pepper with strong hands the color of the half-drunk milky tea that rested in a teacup near her elbow. “Back home folk used to come from miles and miles to get some.”
Cleo stirred. “Is our gumbo going to be as good?”
Nana smiled. Her eyes looked tired. “With you helping? Maybe.” She looked over Cleo’s shoulder into the pot. “That’s just about right. Well done. Now move back, honey.”
Cleo stood back from the stove. Her grandmother lifted her war-scarred chopping board laden with the trinity over and tipped it into the pot, scraping with her knife. The vegetables hissed as they hit the roux. A fragrant cloud of steam roiled through the kitchen; sharp onion overpowered the smells of coffee, tea, and cake.
Nana stirred. The pot clattered away on its burners. Wreathed in steam, the Clairol red of her hair—home-straightened and shaped by sleep-in rollers—seemed to glisten and take on the same dark blood color of the garnet set in the ring she wore on her middle finger. After a few more moments of stirring the vegetables and roux, Nana poured stock from a white bucket into the pot, bringing with it a second, denser cloud of steam. She turned to Cleo and smiled. Sweat beaded her brow, and the smoky blue of her eyeshadow seemed smokier still. In between her thumb and forefinger she held a sliver of sausage, deep-red and cut on the bias. “Want a treat for helping your old Nana out, baby dumpling?”
Cleo opened her mouth to answer, and Nana popped in the slice of sausage as if she were feeding a bird. The meat was coarse, redolent with pecan woodsmoke, and rich with the flavors of spice and garlic. Cleo chewed and heat from red pepper tingled not unpleasantly against her tongue.
Her grandmother smiled, fine lines crinkled at the corner of her eyes in an otherwise smooth face. “Good?” she asked.
Cleo nodded. The room lurched in rhythm with her movement. The colors on the walls ran like the chalk lines of a hopscotch grid in the rain. Her Auntie Anita had once taken her on a balloon ride across a grassy valley; Cleo was reminded instantly of that feeling, of floating above the ground, of windlessness, and dry heat. The world rippled and stretched. She looked around. She was outside on a clear, bright summer day. A woman with sand-brown hair tucked neatly up into a church hat held the hand of a milk-and-tea colored little girl. They stood on a dirt road in front of a fence that ran along the length of a field of cotton. A lemon yellow car like something out of a black and white gangster movie trundled away from them, all curves and shiny chrome.
“Hey!” Cleo shouted at them, but only the woman turned to look. The woman had one green eye and one blue eye. Her mismatched eyes narrowed in something like recognition, then she turned back to take in the cotton field, and the farmhouse beyond.
“Excuse me,” Cleo said. “I’m lost.”
The woman clutched her little girl’s hand tighter and she said, “Pay good attention, here.”
Cleo started to cry. But before she could yell about the unfairness of it all, the sky began to roil with purple clouds that rose on the horizon. Flashes of white, yellow, and the same blue as the woman’s eye illuminated the darkening sky. Cleo did not even make it to the first one thousand before thunder snarled like a wounded beast. She looked down at her hands; they were translucent like a cartoon ghost’s.
The woman pointed. Lightning stamped down to hit the farmhouse. Wooden shingles roared into flame. She pointed again. Yellow lightning sizzled and forked along the sides of a red barn. Smoke and fire billowed up, and Cleo could hear the screams of animals. The smell of smoke was strong in the air. From the farmhouse, a white man, handsome in a movie sort of way, with hair the color of honey and an old-timey mustache ran across the cotton field, eyes wide with terror. The woman pointed again. A blue bolt struck him down. The cotton began to burn. Cleo clapped her ghost-hands against her ears to protect them against the thunder.
The little girl said to her mother, “I thought only the Good Lord could judge?”
The woman turned to face Cleo and fixed her with a stare. “This is true. But the Good Lord is busy. Sometimes He needs a helping hand.”
Light flashed again. Cleo shut her eyes against the brightness. The smell of smoke deepened, this time with the scents of onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic. She opened her eyes. She was in her great-grandmother’s kitchen. The hard knobs of the undersink cabinet dug into her back. Nana looked at her with concern. “That treat too spicy, baby dumpling?”
Tears streamed down Cleo’s face. Her grandmother leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I know, baby dumpling. This is hard on everyone.” She turned to look out the window. “If it wasn’t for the rain, you could go and bring me some lemons and I’d make you Nana’s lemonade.”
Auntie Joyce popped her head into the kitchen. Her round spectacles gave her moon-shaped face a soft, worried look. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Augusta Mae? Momma-Dear is asking to see the ba—” She looked down at Cleo. “Momma want to see Little Cleo.”
Nana wiped her hands on her apron. “Baby dumpling, you best get on in there, then. Your great-grandmama liable to try and get up and come look for you if you keep her waiting.”
Cleo nodded, and slipped through the kitchen doorway. In the front room a neighbor sat clutching Auntie Lou’s hands. Cleo smiled at her and said quietly, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Robertson.”
The woman had huge tears in her eyes, mascara ran down her cheeks. “Oh, baby, your great gran’ma is such a blessing. When doctors say there wasn’t nothing they could do for me, she laid her hands on me and I was healed.” The woman let get of Auntie Lou’s hands to grab Cleo’s shoulder. “I got two candles burning in my front room. And I’m praying to Lord Jesus to take this affliction from her.”
Cleo smiled, said thanks, and headed into the long hallway. Turning right this time, she entered Dear’s bedroom. Her great grandmother was lost in the four-poster King bed that dominated the room. Swaddled in blankets and propped up with pillows. Dear’s hair fanned out, white, wavy, and unbound around a face creased with lines and yellow like the keys on the upright piano in Cleo’s music class. One of her eyes was blue, and clouded over with cataracts, but the other was green and clear. Her voice was measured, but without a tremor. “Cleo baby? Come to Dear.”
Cleo walked over to her great grandmother’s bedside. The old woman reached out and stroked the girl’s face. “You’re not light enough to pass.” The old woman sighed. “This is a good thing. I was light enough. I didn’t pass. But I thought about it.” She coughed heavily. Then shut her eyes for a moment. “You should be who you are without worrying if it’s better to be someone else.”
“You wanted to be someone else?” Cleo asked. No one had ever seemed more herself to Cleo than her great-grandmother.
The old woman smiled. There was no humor in it. “So many times, girl. I was called to serve, with both hands, and so many times I wanted to use only the right one.”
“The hand on the right side, or the correct hand?”
Dear laughed. “Yes.” Before Cleo could ask another question, she continued. “Named your grandmama after Saint Augustine. Thought I could make her a nun, make up for things I did with the left hand.”
“Nana was going to be a nun?”
“She was never. Every bit as headstrong as I was.” Dear coughed again. “It was a hard lesson to learn that you can’t move people around like pieces on a checkerboard.”
“Do you need some water, Dear? I could—”
“No. You see on my chest-of-drawers there a jewelry box? Bring it over.”
Cleo grabbed the box, wood with brass handles, from its resting place on a doily next to a picture of Jesus with his exposed Sacred Heart. Reverently, she brought it to rest on the edge of the bed. Dear opened the box, squinted with her green eye, and pulled out a rosary. The beads were made of rosewood and agate, the crucifix was made of gold. She admired it for a moment, then held it out to Cleo. “This is for you.”
Cleo ran her fingers over the beads and lifted the rosary up to wear around her neck. Dear snorted. “No, girl! The rosary is not for wearing. It’s for counting.” She nudged it towards Cleo’s hand. She pointed, “These beads are for prayers.” She pointed at the beads made of agate, “These other ones are for the announcement of the mysteries.” Another deep cough. “Today, I think is a day for the Sorrowful Mysteries.”
Cleo’s hand brushed against one of the agate beads. The world cracked open. Another clear summer day. Men’s laughter rippled through the air. A woman’s voice, not quite disapproving, chided the laughing men. She looked down at her hands. They were ghostly again, but the rosary she still held seemed solid. The woman from earlier with the mismatched eyes stood near, her mouth tight, and hands over her little girl’s eyes.
“Dear?” Cleo asked.
The woman nodded, almost imperceptibly. She pointed with her chin.
Cleo looked in the direction indicated. There was a massive tree with waxy green leaves and huge white blossoms as big as her head. The blossoms had a heady, perfumed smell, but underneath that was a stench like burnt meat. A feeling like nausea rose up in Cleo as she realized what the stench was from. Swaying softly in the breeze, the body of a man hung from one of the strong boughs of the waxy-leafed tree. The body was partially burnt, but the charred rope around its neck still held its weight. Just below, someone had spread a red-and-white checked picnic blanket. Three young men and a blonde woman sat sprawling, laughing. Cleo recognized one of the men, still movie-handsome and honey-haired, although he had not cultivated his mustache. He stood and poked the body with a stick. The woman clapped her hands to her mouth and shrieked. “Bobby, you’re terrible. Stop it at once.”
“Nancy, me and the boys hung this nigger for taking liberties with you. I suspect you deserve you a nigger ear keychain.”
All four of the picnickers laughed.
Near Cleo’s shoulder, the woman with mismatched eyes whispered down to her daughter, “Come along, Augusta Mae. We need to get on home.”
The world slid around Cleo. She was in Dear’s bedroom, still holding her rosary with her right hand. Dear held onto it with her left. She looked at Cleo. “Both hands are needed.” She sighed once, and her chest fell and lay still.
Moments later, Nana shepherded Cleo out of the bedroom. Auntie Lou and Auntie Joyce bustled past them. Nana stroked Cleo’s hair. “It will be a while before gumbo. Do you want some of Auntie Joyce’s cake?”
Cleo shook her head. The beads of her rosary rattled. Mrs. Robertson pulled Cleo into a sudden bear hug. “I’m so sorry, baby. She’s with Jesus now. It’s all part of the plan. You must believe it.”
The grandfather clock struck two. Cleo shut her eyes. Enough, she thought. There’s time for sadness later. For the first time in six days, the rain stopped.
