EIGHT
April 1958
Jilo had hoped she could help Guy get back on an even keel, once he was out from under Edwin’s influence, but the opposite had proven true. Edwin’s departure had signaled Guy’s collapse. Guy took to bed for days after Edwin and Binah ran off together, just lying there as still as the dead, refusing to speak, facing the wall, like he’d lost his life, a limb, or a love. It was a relief when he rose and returned to drinking. At least for a few days, it was.
Now he sat in her nana’s old chair, his “throne,” he’d come to call it. Red-eyed and simmering, the king was waiting for any excuse, any perceived slight to use as an excuse for another bender. Only two days ago, he’d come back from one that had begun three days before that. He’d stumbled in stinking of whiskey and another woman. Ignoring both scents, Jilo had covered him with a light blanket and left him to sleep himself sober.
Watching now from the corner of her eye, she wondered again, “What is wrong with me?” She loved this man. Loved him. Shouldn’t a good woman’s devotion be enough? Still she couldn’t manage to pull him out of the ditch where he seemed determined to lie. Maybe she wasn’t good enough. Maybe she wasn’t woman enough. Because she sure seemed to lack the ability to help Guy become a better man.
The sofa stuck out farther into the room than in the past; the canvasses Guy had purchased when he first came around remained propped up behind it, blank. The tubes of oil paint remained unopened, buried at the back of their tiny shared closet, in an old tackle box he’d adapted to hold them. “Maybe later, you could set up your easel, paint me like you used to do back in Atlanta,” she said, thinking that her participation might again inspire him. Or New York, she thought, fearing that only in some state of perfected absentia could she still act as his muse. Perhaps not even then.
“No,” Guy said, kicking out his feet, reclining deeper into the chair. “I’m not up for it right now. I’m having a dry spell. Just need to rest a bit. Need to recharge. Besides, the light’s all wrong in here.” The light was plenty clear for her to see the truth. He didn’t need any more rest. And he sure didn’t need any more drink. A day or two of honest work would be plenty to put an end to this dry spell of his.
She sat on the sofa, placing her hands on her lap, preparing herself to walk through a minefield. “You know, I heard they’re hiring over at that new hotel they built where the Pinnacle burned down.”
“Naw, I don’t want you leaving Robinson with that . . .”
“No,” she stopped him before he could insult poor Willy once more. “I didn’t mean me, Guy. I was just thinking that it might do you good to get out of the house a bit until you feel up to painting again. Have something to occupy your time . . .”
He pressed his fingers against his temples, and looked at her through slitted eyes, his jaw jutting forward into a snarl. “Nothing would make you happier, now would it? You’d love to see me out there, nothing but a common laborer. You don’t understand my work,” he said, laying the needle back on a record he’d played a thousand times. “You’ve never appreciated my work.”
“That’s not true,” she began to protest. But just then Robinson came tearing into the room, all dressed up in his new Easter outfit.
“What the hell is all this then?” Guy said, dropping his hands from his temples and gawking at their son. “Where’d you find the money for that getup?”
Same place I find all the money around here. Mother Jilo, she earned it, Jilo thought, then pushed the notion away before it had time to register on her face, where Guy might see it lurking deep in her eyes.
“You come here and let Mama get a good look at you.” Jilo knelt before Robinson, placing her hands on his tiny shoulders. He looked for all the world like a little man, dressed up as he was in his new black suit and red tie. “You are the handsomest young man your mama has ever laid eyes on, you know that?” Robinson nodded yes, and Jilo laughed and tugged him into a tight embrace.
“Why do you got him dressed up like that?”
“It’s Easter.” The words came out almost like a defense, or maybe even an apology.
“You taking him to church?” His expression changed in an instant, and the look on his face was wide-eyed and smirking now, as if he would’ve been less surprised to hear she was planning to send Robinson to the moon. “Mother Jilo, she don’t go to no church,” he said, mimicking her in her professional guise, “won’t do to have them good Christian folk see Mother here poking around. Might scare them near to death.” He tilted his head to the side, dropping his imitation, and continued, “Or maybe Mother Jilo’s the one who’s afraid. Afraid the church is gonna fall on her if she tries to step in.”
Jilo knew he was only joking, but his words still made her cringe; there was a patina of truth to them. Before the Taylors, before she’d learned that magic might be real, it had all felt like playacting. A bit deceitful perhaps, but not dirty, not damning. She had come to know she’d been wrong about magic. She had to wonder if she could be wrong about other things as well. “More like sending him,” she said, “but yes. Willy’s going to take him into town.”
“Well, I don’t know how I feel about that. I don’t like having that pansy hanging around here, and I sure don’t like my boy spending time with him. Not one little bit,” Guy said, then, “Get over here, boy. Let me see what your mama has put you in.”
Robinson hesitated, but Jilo gave him a gentle nudge. “Go on, let Daddy see how nice you look.” She tried to sound confident. Reassuring. “They aren’t going alone,” she said, this time addressing Guy. “Mr. Poole, that nice fellow from the new church over on West Broad, he’s coming to pick them up. Any moment now.”
“That fool Tinker?” Guy asked, never taking his eyes off Robinson.
“He’s a good man, Guy,” Jilo said, an odd flutter in her heart as the truth of what she said hit her. Everybody around knew they weren’t churchgoing people, but two weeks back Tinker had sent one of his employees by with a note for her, asking if she’d agree to let him take her boys to services for the holiday. She couldn’t find the heart to turn him down. “He’s no fool. Just kind.” Jilo stood and smoothed down her dress, trying to make the movement seem natural, unhurried, but still wanting to be ready to put herself between Guy and their son if need be. It only amounted to horseplay, what she’d witnessed so far, but Guy had started getting a little too rough with Robinson. Guy said it’d toughen the boy up, but Jilo had drawn a line, and she, by God, was going to see to it that Guy stayed on the safe side of it.
Guy leaned forward, turning Robinson in a circle, then flopped back against the chair. “Done been Easter three times since he was born. You’ve never worried about getting him religion before. At least not since I’ve been around.”
“This is the first year he’s old enough to understand. To remember.” Jilo stepped forward and took Robinson’s hand, pulling them both beyond striking distance. “I just want him to learn a bit of what’s decent,” she said. He’s seen enough of our kind of living. These last words went unspoken.
Robinson began tugging on her hand, trying to get her attention. When she looked down, he held up his arms to her. “Naw, baby, you’re getting too big for Mama to carry around.” He wasn’t. Not yet. Not really. But that’s what Guy had decided. He didn’t want her coddling Robinson. Turning him soft. “And I don’t want to wrinkle your nice suit.”
She looked out the door at Willy, dressed very much the same as Robinson, hovering near the end of the hall, doing his best to remain out of Guy’s line of sight. The older boy looked handsome, too, but it seemed odd to see him done up in a coat and tie. Like he was some kind of actor in costume, preparing to play a role for which he was ill-suited. With a nod, she signaled Willy to turn back and head to the kitchen. She looked at Guy. “I’m going to take him to the kitchen for a glass of milk before Mr. Poole arrives for the boys.” Guy didn’t seem to care. He didn’t respond. He just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair.
Robinson began jabbering about one thing or another, so she led him quickly down the hall before he managed to irritate his father. The second they were far enough for Guy not to witness the act, she swept her boy into her arms.
“You’re gonna be a good boy today for Uncle Tinker aren’t you?” she asked.
Robinson clasped his hands together and nodded, a big smile on his face. “I like Tinker.” Jilo knew Tinker was in the habit of treating the boys to candy or ice cream whenever he saw them together on West Broad Street, a habit that encouraged Willy to walk Robinson by Tinker’s business more often than he otherwise would.
A part of her felt she should set a clear boundary with Tinker, but she wanted both boys to see that there were kind, decent men out there. For Robinson to emulate, and Willy, well, she was beyond lying to herself anymore about that one, for Willy to love. She didn’t want either of them to leave her home thinking all men were like the ones she’d brought into their lives. Besides, treats had grown scarce around here now that she was supporting Guy’s habits—and those of his friends—with Mother Jilo’s earnings. And all this without a proper place to meet folk, now that she could no longer welcome them into the privacy of the haint-blue room. Deciding it was better to keep work and family apart, she’d followed in her nana’s footsteps, meeting folk in Colonial Cemetery rather than at home. She’d begun to understand what would have led her nana to setting up shop there toward the end of her life. She got fewer clients than she did before, but those willing to meet right where God and all the world could see tended also to be willing to pay a heck of a lot more for her services.
Yes, Mother Jilo earned plenty for the family. Plenty more than they should’ve needed. But Guy drank away a lot of it. And he spent a lot of it “entertaining.” She wondered how much of Mother Jilo’s hard-earned cash went up Guy’s nose, or into some whore’s veins.
“I like Tinker,” her boy repeated himself when she didn’t respond. Robinson was getting to be old enough that they could hold real conversations. Jilo felt proud to see him growing, but it worried her that he’d be able to pick up on the sharp words that passed between his father’s lips.
“I like him, too,” she said, whisking him into the kitchen. “But you need to show respect to your elders. You should call him Mr. Poole.”
“And that goes for you, too,” she said to Willy as she entered the kitchen.
Willy stood leaning against the counter, his neck craned toward the window, searching, Jilo surmised, for the first sign of Tinker’s arrival. “But,” Willy said, “he told us we should call him Tinker.”
“Mr. Poole is a kind and generous man. He may have said to call him Tinker, but I don’t care. You call him Mr. Poole.”
She pulled out a chair from the table and deposited Robinson into it. She took the pitcher of milk from the refrigerator and crossed to the cupboard to find a glass. “You want some?” she asked Willy, but he didn’t answer, even though she could feel the weight of his eyes on her. She turned back to see his lips all puckered tight like he’d tasted something sour. “And just what’s wrong with you? We made a deal, you wear that suit to church today, and I’ll . . .”
“How come you do it?” he said, his voice coming out hushed, his eyes darting toward the hallway.
“How come I do what?” She made her way to the table and began filling the single glass for her son.
“How come you let that man stay on here?” Willy’s words caused her to stop cold and set the pitcher down. “How come you let him treat us like he does?” His voice grew louder, almost like his courage was growing with each word spoken. “You ain’t stupid. You must know by now you can’t change him.” She raised her hands, a signal for Willy to keep quiet lest Guy overhear what he was saying, but the boy wouldn’t be hushed. “I don’t care if he hears me,” Willy said, standing tall. “I ain’t afraid of him. You shouldn’t be either,” he said, though his gaze was fixed on the kitchen’s entrance, telling her that his words were only so much bravado. “Not if there are two of us and only one of him,” he quickly added. “We can make him leave. We can go back to like it was before. Back when it was good.”
She stood there for a moment, at a loss for words. Her heart pounded with the expectation that Guy’s heavy boots would come stomping down the hall. Much to her relief, the only sound was that of Guy snoring in his throne.
“Sit,” she commanded, watching as Willy dragged out a chair, turned it around, and then slumped over its top rail. She placed her hand on the back of Robinson’s head to reassure him, then realized she was actually doing it to comfort herself. “I’m not afraid of him,” she said. She only realized it was a lie when the last word left her lips. “I love him,” she said by rote, wondering if there were still even a shade of truth to that statement. Then finally she said the one thing she knew to be true. “Remember,” she said pulling Robinson’s cheek against her hip, “he’s my son’s father. I won’t have you showing disrespect for him in front of my boy.”
Willy forced his way up from the table, leaning over it toward her. “He done disrespects himself enough in front of him. Won’t look after him. Won’t work a lick. Won’t even get up out of that old chair ’cept to grab another bottle. He ain’t the kind of man a woman like you could love. No,” Willy said, his tone softening as his eyes lowered to Robinson’s face. “I don’t believe you do. Love him, that is. You want to love him. But I don’t know why. What has he ever done for you, really?”
The young man’s words knocked the wind out of her. She reached out to brace herself against the table, nearly upsetting the half-full glass of milk that her wide-eyed Robinson hadn’t yet touched. Her lips began working long before she found the words. “He came back . . .” she said, for the first time letting herself hear the truth of her heart. “The men in my life,” she said as the image of a photo of her father, Jesse, passed before her mind’s eye, giving way to the memory of Lionel’s golden glasses glinting in the overhead light as he held her pinned to his desk. The haunted expression on Pastor Jones’s face as he confessed his delusions to her. The look in Guy’s eyes as he read the letter inviting him to leave her behind. “All of them. They’ve all let me down somehow and left me. Even the good ones who never intended to.” She raised her gaze to meet Willy’s. “Guy, he’s the only one who ever came back.”
“We’d all been better off if he hadn’t,” Willy said, and she had to wonder if he was right. His head made a quick jerk, and he hastened to the window. “Here comes Mr. Poole now.” Willy’s voice grew excited. “He’s driving his new Impala.”
Jilo went to the window and leaned to the side so that she could see the bend of the road. A shiny new Chevrolet, a metallic shade of aqua not so very different from the familiar haint blue. She knew Tinker was doing real well for himself. He’d grown his business from the one shop on West Broad to include a small grocery over on Whitaker, some blocks south of his original shop, and a gas station in Garden City. These days everything the man touched seemed to turn to gold. And every black mother with a daughter anywhere near marrying age had taken to asking him over for Sunday dinner. Certainly on Easter, he’d be able to pick and choose from a wealth of invitations, but still it was her children he had wanted to spend it with.
Excited by Willy’s enthusiasm, Robinson slid off his seat and scampered to her side. She lifted him and placed a kiss on his forehead. She shifted Robinson into Willy’s embrace, then herded the two over to the back door. “Now get out there where he can see you, before he comes knocking and bothering Guy. And you treat his new car real gentle. You hear?” She pointed at Willy. “You make sure Robinson keeps his feet off the seats.” She opened the door for them and hurried them out. “You make sure to tell Mr. Poole I thank him for his kindness,” she said, but her words might have been lost on Willy’s ears, scurrying as he was to head off Tinker.
She thought of Tinker’s warm black eyes. The desperation in them the day she’d accepted that ride from him, then deserted him by the cemetery. The day she’d arrived home to find Guy and Edwin waiting on her front porch. It had all just seemed too foolish to consider. She didn’t even know the man, and he certainly didn’t know her. With Guy she had a history. She had a child. And though she knew the kind of man Guy was, she still believed in the kind of man she knew he might one day become, if he’d get out of his own way. Yes, a part of her still loved him. A part of her always would.
Still, she now found herself wondering how things would have turned out if Tinker’s old truck had held up long enough to get her home, or if Guy hadn’t been waiting just outside her door.
She turned to see Guy standing in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the hall. He was watching her with a dead look in his eyes, propping himself up with one hand against the wall. “What is there to eat around here?”
He hadn’t shown much interest in eating for quite a while. “Come sit down,” she replied. “I’ll fry you up some eggs. Got a bit of salt bacon, too.” He nodded and crossed to the table, pulling back a chair and collapsing into it. “You want coffee?” He despised the chicory she’d grown up drinking, so she’d taken to buying the more expensive beans to please him. Bought a new percolator and a hand grinder, too, as he liked his coffee better freshly ground.
“Yes. But the food first.” He put his elbows on the table, rested his head between his hands.
She nodded, realizing even as she did that he wouldn’t see her doing so. She turned and crossed to the stove, igniting all four of the electric eyes, hoping that one of them would begin to glow. The old stove was failing. It had been new when she was a girl, purchased by her nana right after she got the house hooked up to the power lines. But now the burners took a lot longer than they should to glow red, sometimes not heating up at all. They needed a new stove, but she felt it best to hold off on a purchase that would anger Guy. He had firm opinions about how “their” money should be spent. Maybe after he went a few days without a hot supper, he’d realize the wisdom of replacing it, or maybe he wouldn’t even care. Regardless, until it was good and dead, she’d force it to limp through.
She pulled out a heavy iron skillet from the drawer where she kept the pans. She set it on the stove, happy to see the back right burner had begun to heat. Once the pan was on the active burner, she switched off the others and went to the refrigerator to fetch the bacon and eggs. She watched, silent, as the white fat of the bacon began to liquefy, a memory from a chemistry class—how many years ago now?—of an experiment to determine the viscosity of some solution rising up in her mind. It fell away at the sound of Guy’s voice. “You got that coffee yet?”
She turned. “Not yet. I was getting your food ready first.”
“I said I wanted the coffee first.” He looked up at her, clenching his fists.
She didn’t contradict him. It wasn’t worth it. “I’m sorry. I’ll get it started.” She’d get some food in him. Some coffee. Maybe then he’d be sober enough to talk some sense.
“No, you might as well finish with the food since you got it started.” He lowered his head back into his hands. “It would just be nice if a man would be listened to every once in a while around here.”
She said nothing. Just grabbed a fork and turned the meat. She went to the cupboard and pulled down a plate, which she brought over to the stove. She fished the bacon from the pan before it cooked too crisp—Guy liked it tender—and cracked two eggs into the hot fat. Sunnyside up. Mustn’t crack the yolks. Guy wouldn’t touch them if the yolks got cracked. As soon as the food was ready to his liking, she carried the plate and fork to the table and set it down beside his elbow. When he didn’t look up, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “Here you go,” she said. “I’ll get your coffee.”
He grunted, but didn’t otherwise react.
She crossed to the counter to retrieve the coffee mill and the canister that held the beans. As she began to crank the mill, she looked over at Guy. He hadn’t budged an inch, hadn’t even made a start on his breakfast. She realized that he was killing himself, slowly, right before her eyes. She had to break him out of this mood, get him up and going again. Or failing that, she finally acknowledged, she would have to get him out of here. Yes, he was Robinson’s father, but she couldn’t have her boy growing up around a man like this.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, the sound of his voice startling her, even though it came out quiet, his words, mumbled through his hands, nearly indiscernible. “You may be right.” She deserted the coffee mill on the counter and drew near to hear him better.
She waited a few moments, but he didn’t continue. “Right about what?” she asked, pulling out a chair and joining him at the table.
He looked up at her, his eyes red, still dazed from drink. “About this damned dry spell of mine. I can’t just sit around waiting for it to pass.”
She nodded, feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time. “Anything, Guy. Anything you got to do. You just tell me.” She said it, and she meant it, too. She wanted him to find his way back to himself. Still, she braced herself for whatever might come next.
He leaned back in his chair, pushing away his plate and fixing her with his gaze. “I’ve been thinking it’s this place—Savannah. It’s this town that’s the problem. If I could just get out of here . . .” His eyes lowered, a flash of guilt showing in them. “If we could get out of here. Get back to New York. I’m sure I’ll be able to work again.” As he spoke, he leaned forward, a fire building in him, the likes of which she hadn’t seen since the old days, back in Atlanta. “We could even take Willy if you want. There are others there like him. He’d be happier there, too. The change would be good for us all.”
For a brief and bright shining moment, she let herself be infected by his zeal. Maybe it was, after all, Savannah’s fault. It was true, before Edwin had found Guy and brought him south, Guy seemed to have been making something of himself. She imagined her small family living happily in that great northern city, far from old memories, far from Jim Crow. Then reality set back in. “It’d take money to get us set up in New York. We don’t have that kind of money, Guy.”
His eyes opened wide and he pointed toward the ceiling. “I already got that figured out; Binah’s done married herself one of the richest fellows in creation. You write your sister. You write Binah. You ask her to arrange for Edwin to make you a loan. He got me down here. He can help get me the hell back out of here.”
She shook her head. She hadn’t shared any news of Edwin with Guy. She’d figured it best not to bring up her brother-in-law. “No, he isn’t rich anymore,” she said, steeling herself to weather his disappointment. “Binah wrote me to say that his parents have cut him off. Edwin is in no position to help us.”
A small smile curved his lips, and a light ignited in his eyes. He laughed. “Good ole Edwin’s gonna learn what being a working man is like now.” It surprised her to see Guy so callous about his supposedly dear friend’s misfortune—especially since Guy himself had been counting on that fortune. Worse, it infuriated her that he would take any satisfaction in the thought of her little sister doing without. But before she could speak, he continued. “No problem, we’ll sell the house. That’ll give us something to get started with.”
Jilo pulled back. “We can’t do that, Guy.”
His face darkened. “And why the hell can’t we? A second and a half ago, you were saying you’d do ‘anything.’ ”
“Well, ’cause Nana left this place to me, Opal, Poppy, and Binah. Even if they agreed to sell it, we’d have to split it all four ways.” She wondered if they might. Based on their history of not visiting, Poppy and Opal didn’t give a damn about the place, and Binah might just be happy for the cash.
“And where the hell are they? If it weren’t for the two of us, this place would’ve been a deserted ramshackle long ago. No, this here place belongs to us. No need to share anything.”
She cast her eyes around the kitchen of the house that had been in her family now for three generations. It was true, this place belonged to her, and she belonged to this place. She realized that even if her sisters would be willing, she wasn’t. This was her home. And she knew, as badly as she wanted to believe in Guy, he’d blow through the windfall, and she and the boys might end up homeless in that great northern city. “No, Guy, that isn’t going to happen.”
Guy reached out with a wide sweep of the arm and sent his plate flying. It crashed against the wall, taking a divot of plaster out before falling and shattering on the floor. Jilo pushed back from the table, ready to flee, ready to fight, but Guy was already up and stomping down the hall. She followed him out through the living room, catching hold of the front door as he passed through it. She held up her left hand to fend off the protesting screen. “No more, Guy,” she called out after him. “No more. We can’t go on living like this. I’m not gonna go on living like this.”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t turn around. She waited there in the doorway and watched as he marched down the sandy drive, around the bend, and out of sight.
She turned, pushing the door closed behind her as she did.
When she looked up, her heart jumped to her throat. “Good Lord,” she exclaimed as she realized she was not alone. Another man sat in the partial shadow that fell on her nana’s old chair, her lover’s “throne.” Her pulse beat in her neck, even after she recognized the face, even after all sense of danger had passed. “Pastor Jones,” she said, relieved, confused, taking a few steps closer to the man she hadn’t seen in years. “You frightened me.” She smiled, pressing her hand over her heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She flushed with embarrassment, wondering just how much he had witnessed of her argument with Guy.
“I was called here,” he said, the words coming out quiet and flat. His voice sounded odd, like it was reaching to her from a great distance.
“Called?” she said, but he gave no further explanation. She took a closer look at him.
At first glance, he seemed to be in good shape. His clothes appeared clean and neatly pressed, his well-blocked hat rested on his knee. Still she could see there was something wrong with the man. Too quiet. Too still. Shell-shocked, that was the term that came to mind—his gaze was both blank and fixed at the same time, like he’d seen horrors he couldn’t look away from, even though they were no longer before him. He looked up at her through wide and haunted eyes. “They aren’t angels,” he said. “They never were.”