NINE
Savannah, Georgia—May 1954
“I want you to understand there are good men in this world, Jilo,” Nana said. “My Reuben, your grum’pa, he was a right good man. He took good care of me and his family. He bought your nana this here house. Your daddy, my Jesse, he was a good man, too.” A bright smile broke out on her aged face. “He sure loved his girls, he did,” she said and stroked the back of Jilo’s hand. “All three of you. He’d be proud of all his girls, he would.” She nodded. “Especially you.”
Jilo had to wonder if that were true, if her father would be proud of her now, with her dress tight around her breasts and middle. And without a man to claim the baby that was making it so.
Nana’s chair made a scuffing nose as she pushed it back. The table squeaked a bit as she leaned into it to help push herself up. “Pastor Jones, I think he’s a good man, too. Made a mistake here and there, and I sure got no idea what he’s gotten himself up to now, but at his root, I believe he is an honorable man.” She walked across the room, the floor creaking with each heavy step. Jilo noticed she was moving slower than she used to, her right hip seeming to catch every other step or so.
Jilo wasn’t sure where this conversation was heading, so she sat in silence as her grandmother crossed the room to the pantry. The old woman disappeared into the pantry for a few moments and emerged with three bottles, a cobalt-blue one like you might see hanging on a spirit tree, tucked beneath her left arm, and one small clear bottle in each gnarled hand. She crossed to the sink with no sign of hurry, then set the bottles down on the counter.
“Your nana’s afraid,” she said, reaching into a cabinet to retrieve a drinking glass, “that you done figured out all on your own that not all men are good.” She set the glass down beside the bottles and reached for one of the clear ones. She unscrewed its cap, then raised the bottle and the glass up to her eye level, and measured out a dram or so of dark brown liquid by sight. Jilo could tell by its scent that it contained creosote, but there were higher notes to it, too, one of them a bitter smell that reminded her of unripe tomatoes on the vine. Nana returned both to the counter, and though her joints seemed to protest the movement, screwed the cap back on the bottle. “Good men,” she said, turning her attention to the second clear bottle, this one with a ceramic stopper held in place by a metal bracket, “they deserve a loving woman, and children, if God sees fit to send them.” She flipped the metal lever that held the stopper in place, then took a spoon from a drawer and used it to measure out some of the clear orange liquid. Jilo rose and came to look over her grandmother’s shoulder. Her nana set the still-open bottle down on the counter. Jilo lifted it to her nose. The orange liquid, Jilo decided from the peppery scent that nearly brought tears to her eyes, was capsicum oil.
Her nana looked back at her, and seeing what she was doing, said “Careful now. Don’t get that in your eyes.” She took the bottle from Jilo’s hand and closed the stopper before setting it next to the other clear bottle. Jilo noticed the old woman’s hand trembled a bit as she reached for the neck of the tall blue bottle. Her nana took the bottle in her right hand, and used her left to twist on its cork stopper until it came out with a pop.
She turned her attention back to Jilo. “Not all men are good, but someday you’re gonna meet one of the good ones. You’re gonna want to have his babies because of who he is, not just ’cause it’s something that happened to you.” She tilted the bottle up, and Jilo watched as a liquid unlike any she’d come across—even in her advanced chemistry classes—flowed out of it. A fluid somewhat resembling mercury spilled into the cup, but this substance glowed with a phosphorescence unlike any of the normal properties of the liquid metal. Rather than blending with the other two ingredients, it seemed to come alive, like a tiny serpent in a brackish sea. Her nana stopped the bottle up, then handed the concoction to her.
“That there gonna burn a bit going down, and it’s gonna make you sleep for maybe a day, but when you wake up, your situation’ll be cleared up for you. If that’s what you want.”
Jilo stared into the glass, watching as the band of glowing silver swirled around, connecting head to tail into a figure eight, then breaking apart again. Her nana always swore to her that her “magic” wasn’t real, but the behavior of the unidentified quicksilver-like substance made her wonder, if only for a moment.
“What is in this?” Jilo swiveled the glass in her hand, growing even more curious as the substance refused to dissolve into the rest of the mixture.
“It’s safe. For you,” Nana said, not really answering the question. “You ain’t the first girl Nana’s done this for, so you don’t need to worry.” Nana’s features softened. “You ain’t”—she emphasized the word—“the first girl Nana’s done this for, so no need to feel like you doing something wrong.” She reached out and took Jilo’s free hand. The old woman’s touch felt cool, dry, papery. “Men, they’ll tell you that you shouldn’t have a choice in the matter, but Nana figures until those men step up and help raise what’s in you, it ain’t none of they business anyway. You, girl, Nana wants you to know you have a choice.”
She released Jilo and collected her bottles, then walked off stiffly to return them to where they’d come from.
Jilo weighed two possible futures. Perhaps there was still time. She could write the women doctors whose achievements she wanted so badly to emulate. Take a job. Maybe even save up enough money to go visit them in person.
If she had this child, she’d be branded a fallen woman. She’d have a hard time finding any kind of employment, and she’d certainly never see the inside of a medical school. Her life would be hard. Probably lonely, too. Not many men—even the good ones—would willingly raise another man’s child. Her nana was right, there was no shame in making the decision to return to the path she’d envisioned for her life. But up until this moment, she hadn’t thought she would have a choice, and she’d begun to imagine other things. What it would be like to have someone of her very own, someone so completely connected to her that they were a part of each other.
“Nana,” she said as the old woman returned from the pantry.
“Yes, baby?”
“If you were me, what would you do?”
The old woman’s eyes brightened and a smile stole over her face. “Nana, she’d do the same thing she reckons you about to do.” She reached up and pulled Jilo’s forehead down to her lips and planted a kiss on her brow. Releasing Jilo, she stepped back. “Nana be out in the garden for a while, if you need her.” She turned and shuffled toward the door that opened to the outside. The room grew brighter as she opened the door, then dimmed again as she pulled it closed.
Jilo looked down at the glass in her trembling hand. She closed her eyes and raised it to her lips. The liquid’s fiery, bitter smell promised her freedom, a chance to start over. There was no shame in letting go of this child. But her heart was not willing to do it.
Jilo opened her eyes and emptied the glass’s contents into the sink. No matter what folk thought, there was no shame in having this baby either. She turned on the faucet to wash the silvery band down the drain.