Getting Mother’s Body. Suzan-Lori Parks

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ home and get his hearse,” I says. And we all fall out laughing.

      “It’s good Billy’s getting married,” Dill says. “People were starting to talk.”

      “I ain’t heard no one talking,” June says.

      Dill puts her hand in her pocket, fiddling with something. She’s been fiddling in her pocket like that for years. Like a fella would touch hisself from time to time. Dill sees me watching her fiddle and stops, taking out her hand. I want to tell her that she can go head and fiddle all she wants to, it’s her pocket and her privates.

      “They was talking, believe me,” Dill says.

      Billy comes out on the porch jangling my money in her hand. It don’t sound like three quarters, though.

      “I found a silver dollar too,” she says.

      I look over at June who is looking at me. The dollar is the first and the last of June’s leg money. “Let yr Uncle keep his old silver dollar for a little while longer,” I tell Billy.

      A smile passes over June’s face before a new thought comes to her and she looks down at the floor. “We’ll need that dollar for our own bus fare when we head up after you tomorrow,” she says. And she’s right.

      Billy gives me the dollar. “I’ma pack,” she says going inside. June clumps after her to help out.

      Dill walks down the steps slow-like, taking one step at a time, placing one foot on the step then the other, standing still, then moving down the next step until she is standing flat on the ground.

      “Guess you all won’t be going to LaJunta then,” Dill says.

      “Don’t look like it,” I says.

      “I shoulda brought Willa back here and buried her in the first place,” Dill says, “then we wouldn’t be worrying about her getting paved over.”

      “Water under the bridge,” I says.

      “Them diamonds and pearls woulda been nice.”

      “Whoever said you can’t take it witchu didn’t know my sister,” I says.

      “Willa Mae sure was something,” Dill says, her voice going funny, sad or mad, I can’t tell which.

      I had plans that depended on someday getting the treasure my sister had left us. A new church maybe. But maybe not. Maybe just something easier, like a regular house instead of a trailer and land that we owned outright. I feel those plans move away from me, out of my reach. But there’s something I wanted more than a house, something I didn’t know I wanted more until now. My parents are buried in the colored section of the Butler County cemetery and my mind had planned, secretly, without me actually thinking about it, to lay Willa Mae alongside them. It woulda been nice, visiting them all at once.

      If I was still preaching I would have something to say about the lightness of the Way and the roughness of the Road, but I just let out a heavy breath.

      “How tall you, Dill?” I ask.

      “Same as I was last time you wanted to know.”

      Dill is over six feet.

      “You look like you growd.”

      “I’m too old to grow any taller,” she says, hand in her pocket again, fiddling. “Only way I’m growing is out.” But Dill is as tall as she is lean. Nothing ladylike on her at all.

      “I’ll tell you when the piglets get weaned,” Dill says. “Then you can come by and pick one out.”

      “Sounds good to me,” I says.

      “Billy getting married’ll shut a lot of folks’ mouths,” Dill says. She gets in her truck and goes, honking her horn at Laz as she passes him still coming down the road.

      Laz shoulda been here by now. He musta stopped.

      People been talking all right. June ain’t heard nothing but I know better. They been talking in the beauty shop and in the barbershop, when they get they dry goods, and when they go over to Atchity’s to order from Sears Roebuck. When they come by here to get gasoline, they catch a look if they’re lucky, and tuck away what they seed to gnaw over together in public places, or in they own homes, after the dinner dishes have been cleared away. Old biddies talk. Men talk. Fathers and mothers talk. Billy Beede and her baby-belly and no husband. Billy Beede and Billy Beede’s bad luck: father-she-ain’t-never-knowd run off and dead probably; mother run wild and dead certainly; young bastard girl child tooked in by dirt-poor filling-station-running childless churchless minister Uncle and one-legged crutch-hopping Aunt. Girl growd almost to womanhood, also growd as big as a house with no ring on her finger and no man in sight. Old biddies talk and feel a ripple of delight coming from the satisfaction that they think they seed it coming. Men feel a ripple too. Snipes, Snopes, Snaps? They can’t be sure but one of them seen Billy run across the road without looking for cars to jump into the fella’s arms. None of them cept Laz never gived Billy the time of day but now they all rippling when they think of her and wish they gals and they wives would run across the road towards them like that. They’ve all seen Snipes’ yellow car.

      While the father and mother talk over dinner, their children, all born within the confines of marriage, hang around the doorjambs, standing just out of sight, listening. The good girls savor the details of Billy’s business (her swole belly, the housedresses she wears these days that fit tight around the middle). The good boys strain to overhear and savor what, if I was in the pulpit, I would call the intimacies of unmarried intercourse. Those good boys overhear the details with pleasure but hope not to hear their own names mentioned among the lists of possible fathers. Being forced to marry a Beede, for the most part, is pretty bad.

      I get an idea that June should ride with Billy tomorrow and I’ll come up alone on Friday. I holler my plan into the house.

      “Thanks, but Snipes wants just me to come tomorrow,” Billy hollers back.

      Laz has come up in the yard. He’s laying between the two gas pumps with his hands acrosst his chest.

      “Someone’s gonna drive up and run over your head, Laz,” I says.

      He don’t move for a minute then he gets up and comes to sit on the porch. Laz has a steady way about him. He don’t walk too fast but he walks steady. Most days I wish he was the baby’s daddy. Some days I’m glad he ain’t.

      “She gone yet?” he asks.

      “She’ll leave on the six A.M. bus.”

      He asks if he can tell her goodbye and walks inside, staying just a minute then coming back out.

      “She’s got a pearl earring around her neck on a string,” he says.

      “One of Willa Mae’s fakes,” I says.

      “She says it’ll match her wedding dress,” Laz says.

      “I guess it will,” I says.

      “I could give her a ride,” Laz says. Texhoma is about four hundred miles to the north. Eight or nine hours drive.

      “Billy,” СКАЧАТЬ