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Big Ma had been crying buckets over Collis. "My baby," she would moan, "my baby is dead." Reggie tried to console her as much as he could. "You still got me, mama," he told her. She hugged him and cried the more. Reggie hardly cried at all, because it was Collis she was missing.
The news of your parents’ deaths changed her. She still cried, but it was a different kind of cry. Now she cried because she realized how selfish she had been.
The call came on a Saturday morning. Big Ma answered the phone, then tilted her head and put a finger in her other ear in order to block out the surrounding noise. After a long silence, she gasped and put her hand over her mouth. She looked directly at me for a long moment. Then she looked at Janet. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she squeezed them shut and hung up the phone.
"Dear sweet Jesus," she said, "you babies is all alone." Then she heaved a great sigh. "Y’all gon’ live with me. That’s what Collis would have wanted. Y’all gon’ live with me."
You look over at Reggie staring at you from just beyond the door to his room. His eyes narrow to thin slits, and he forces his lips tight together. He reminds you of the man you and Collis had seen dragging the trunk. His stare is at you and, at the same time, through you as if he is looking far off at some distant loathing. You can feel a tightness growing in your chest.
Since you and Janet were already staying with Big Ma while your parents were in Europe for a couple of months, the change to simply staying with Big Ma was a simple one, you and Janet stopped talking about going home. This was it. This was home now. So when Jame and Li’l Bo left, you stayed. Naturally, they thought staying with Big Ma all the time was great. This was where all the fun things in the world happened. They couldn’t know about the not-so-fun things that happened there. Reggie said he would poke your eyes out if you told anyone anything about what he was doing to you. Worst of all, he threatened to poke Janet’s eyes out.
"You little punk," Reggie said to you. "If you don’t bend over, ah’m gon’ poke her eyes out, and then ah’m gon’ kill her just like that man killed Collis. And ain’t nobody never gon’ find out about it."
So you would bend over and Reggie would push himself into you and you would squirm. "Be still," he would bark, "I ain’t through yet." He would hug you tightly, but not so tightly that he hurt you. The hugs felt warm. Then he would groan and you would feel the pressure inside you relax. That’s when he would push you away. "Get away from me you little punk."
Sometimes you would bleed, and the pain would be so bad that you would beg him to use some Vaseline. "Yeah, get some grease, you little bitch. And you can put some on your mouth." You did what he said, and you swallowed when he said swallow. "And you bet’ not tell mama, either."
You were ten years old when Big Ma, Reggie, Janet and you moved to the west side. It was in the fall. You lived on the first floor. The space under the stairs to the second floor created a closet and storage room in your front hallway. The thing about this closet was that it assumed a different character depending on the light. In the morning, it was harmless. Sometimes the door would be ajar, and the light of day would slice in revealing out-of-season clothes, Christmas ornaments, luggage and run-over shoes. In the evening, the light would change and sometimes play tricks on you. The out-of-season clothes would look like a man hunched over trying to conceal himself. The luggage could look like dogs or toads or the scaly back of the creature from the Black Lagoon. At night, you wouldn’t even look that way. In fact, you avoided that hallway altogether. At night, with only your imagination to work on that strip of blackness between the door and the frame, you were able to conjure up more evil, more skeletons, more snakes and rats and spiders than existed in all creation. At night the path to hell began in the hallway of your apartment.
Ironically, that same closet inspired good memories. It always reminded you of another closet your parents had had. That closet had a unique feature in that it was situated over a wash basin and drain in the basement. From time to time, water bugs would find their way up to that closet and eventually into the house. You were afraid of them. But Janet, who was two back then, had no fear. She was only curious. And whenever she saw one, she would grab it with her little hand and try to put it in her mouth. At least twice, Mama caught her just as she was about to stuff one of those brown, bulbous creatures with kicking legs and flailing antennas into her gapped face. You were there both times, and your feelings about the rescue were mixed. On the one hand, you were glad your little sister was saved from eating what for all you knew could have been a poisonous morsel. On the other hand, you were disappointed because you wanted to see her face when she bit it. Maybe they tasted good!
Unlike the earlier closet, this closet slanted down under the stairs creating a space way in the back that even in the daylight looked like a void. It was always dark, always black. When Big Ma first moved you into that apartment, you always avoided even looking all the way into that closet. But when you got older, you would hide in the far reaches of that closet from Janet because you knew she was still afraid of it, and that she thus would be unable to find you there.
One day while hiding there, you noticed that the wall you used to rest your weight on wasn’t really a wall. Its texture was too smooth. It gave too easily under the pressure of your thumb. It was a suitcase. You wondered why it was stuck way in the back, and not up near the front with the rest of the luggage. You gripped the handle and tried to lift it. It was full, and it was heavy.
You were in your G-man stage then. G-men always had things to help them on the job, so you had things, gadgets. You had decoder rings, pocket flash lights, dog whistles that humans couldn’t hear, pocket knives with can openers, nail clippers, cork screws and screw drivers. You even had your own pepper spray which you made yourself. It consisted of a nose spray bottle that you filled with household cleaners that had warning labels on them. If the label said keep away from the eyes, you put some in. You wanted to try it on Reggie, but you were afraid to.
The suitcase in the closet was a dream come true. You pretended it was an enemy stash that you had been assigned to explore. The problem was that you couldn’t let on that you knew it was there. If you let on, the owner might move it before you had a chance to explore it, discover his secret identity, and crack the case. Your plan was simple. You would fake being sick one Sunday so that Big Ma and Janet would go to church without you. Reggie was never around on Sunday mornings, or if he was, he would be hung over until afternoon.
On the appointed day, you got your G-man stuff, and slipped into the closet. In the dim yellow light from your little flashlight, you examined the case. It was big. This case was bigger than any of the other pieces of luggage in the closet. And although it had felt smooth to the touch in the dark, in fact, it was alligator skin. Using the various items in your pocket knife, you tried to pick the lock. After about fifteen minutes, you simply pushed the button. It was open.
You lifted the lid slowly, your fingers trembling. The scent from inside the case was a mixture of sweat and dust and soap and the hint of a perfume or cologne. There was a diary on top. It was black with the word ’Diary’ and the year, 1947, etched in the front in gold letters. You flipped quickly through the pages just to see how many have entries. The script was flowery; the ink was peacock blue. It was about a quarter full. You took it out and put it on the floor by your ankle.
Most of the items were women’s clothing. Panties, bras, four cotton blouses, two wool sweaters, a couple of pairs of gabardine pants, a couple of skirts, stockings, socks, slip-on high-heels. Then there were two pairs of white men’s socks and another diary. It had the same black and gold lettered outside, but the handwriting inside was rapidly scrawled block lettering. Mostly done in black ink and pencil, it too was about a quarter full. You put it with the other one on the floor.
You ran your hand along the inside perimeter checking for secret compartments. It was solid. You checked the lid and for a false bottom. Nothing. You rubbed all along the outside surface just in case you missed something the first time around. It was clean. You put the clothes back in and closed it up. Then it hit you. The message was in the diaries. You remembered that you didn’t bring your decoder ring. That’s ok. You would get it later.
You reckoned the diary in black ink and pencil was your father’s. His entries were short and crisp and infrequent. Most of the entries were poems. He used the diary as a notebook.
3 Jan ’47
Sadie is already starting to get on my nerves about this trip. Hey, man, all I want to do is write my poems, not some travel log.
4 Jan ’47
Said goodbye to Hattie and Mildred tonight. Sure can’t let Sadie see this one.
7 Jan ’47
The old girl looked nice this evening, or maybe it was the sunset. She inspired me to write a new piece. I’m going to rock her good tonight.
8 Jan ’47
What is it with women and sex after they get married? I put my best shit on that woman, and she hardly wanted to come. She couldn’t hold it, though. As she came, I put my finger on her button. She bucked like a pony for five solid minutes! Then she acted like I shouldn’t have done it. You don’t give it to them, they complain; you give it to them good, they complain. What the hell’s going on?
31 Jan. ’47.
She caught me. Just as I was about to come. Damn! Why couldn’t she have waited another two minutes? She made me swear to stop seeing her. Naturally, I swore. I had my legs crossed.
The one with the peacock blue ink must have been your mother’s.
Thursday, January 2, 1947.
Dear Diary, I am so excited. Bill and I are scheduled to leave in four days for Paris. I can scarcely wait. Maybe I’ll run into Josephine Baker. If we both take lots of notes as we agreed to do, we should have more than enough material for a book.
Saturday, January 4, 1947.
Dear Diary, we had a long talk with Ashanti and Janet, and they- at least he- understand that they will be staying with Aunt Verlene until we get back.
Started gathering up stuff to pack.
Sunday, January 5, 1947.
Finished packing today. I just know I won’t be able to sleep. Last night, he was strangely preoccupied, so he didn’t even ask. He knows I don’t want any more children. Why doesn’t he just stop wanting it? We are intellectual beings, spiritual beings. Why must he always be an animal? Why can’t he love me for my mind?
Monday, January 6, 1947.
On the train at last! We’ll be in New York tomorrow, and on the boat tomorrow night. I’m going to miss the kids, but Bill and I need to do this. This might be our last hope. Janet screamed hysterically as we got on. Little man fought hard to hold his back, as did I. Bill was stoic.
Tuesday, January 7, 1947.
This ship is huge! It’s not like the cargo ships we traveled to and from Liberia on. This thing has decks and games and chairs and white people calling me madam in this cute little French accent.
I had forgotten how boats rock back and forth, to and fro on the waves. I hope I don’t get sick like I did on our last trip. This is a big ship. Maybe I won’t. So far, it hasn’t rocked a lot because the weather is good.
We watched the sunset together, orange and gold and pink on clouds that looked like mountains on the horizon. He put his arm around me.
Wednesday, January 8, 1947.
I married a pervert!
Thursday, January 9, 1947.
I hate him! Why can’t we just do normal sex like everybody else? The missionary position! That’s it! I’m through! No more sex! Beginning today, our marriage is going to be spiritual, intellectual.
Friday, January 31, 1947.
I caught them in the bed! Bill and this little girl from the ship. She looked about fourteen. Bill swore she was eighteen. Like that mattered! And he tried to blame it on me! ME! All I ever did was love him and have his babies. How could he do this to me?! I am so humiliated. I made him swear to never ever do it again.
There are lots of entries about shopping and outdoor cafes and great museums. Then there is the final entry.
Saturday, March 1, 1947.
Things seem to be back to normal, but they’re not. Bill is writing some good stuff. So am I. I love this town. The sights, the clubs, the people are all wonderful. I wish America could be more like this. But Bill cannot leave these young French girls alone. I hate them.
We’re going to the mountains. I am going to confront him, and settle this once and for all.
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