Orphea Proud (15 page)

Do you
ever feel like your life is a puzzle? Sometimes I do. A few months after arriving at Proud Road, I really felt like that. There were so many pieces of me floating around: me and Lissa, me and Nadine, me and Daddy; me and my aunts and me and Ray, me and poetry and Icky and Marilyn; my old life with Rupert and Ruby and my new one on Proud Road. And then there was the biggest puzzle piece of all, being “gay.” I say it was the biggest piece because so much space inside me was taken up in hiding it. I was hiding, no getting around it. I’d gone as far as telling Ray about Lissa, even told him I loved her. But I was pretty sure he didn’t get the
actual gist of what I meant. And Aunt Cleo and Aunt Minnie—I’d kept them totally in the dark. They still thought I left home because of some problem with math. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t talk with them about Lissa and my being gay because I didn’t want to upset them. The truth is I was scared. I was pretty certain they wouldn’t knock me upside the head the way Rupert had; but suppose they asked me to leave? Suppose they didn’t like me anymore? Some people might call that a chickenshit way of thinking. Be who you are—if others don’t like it, screw them. But suppose you really, really care about somebody? And what if they find out something about you to make them not want to know you anymore? Or even be afraid of you as if you’re some kind of freak? I cared a lot about Aunt Cleo and Aunt Minnie. I couldn’t chance losing them.

Spring came. Icicles cracked from the eaves of the store, making big puddles. Runoff from the melting snow left the road with even more ruts. Lola’s car got stuck coming out of her driveway four times a week. Ray and I gave her a push every time.

“This mud is worse than the snow,” she’d mutter, skidding off down the mountain.

Over at our place, my aunts began their spring cleaning. I helped them take down the lace curtains and wash them gently in the bathtub. Then Aunt Minnie and I hung them out in the sun to dry on a clothesline strung between two trees. Aunt Minnie and I took everything off the shelves while Aunt Cleo did a final
inventory. There were lots of stale cupcakes left, which we crushed up to add to some chicken feed. Aunt Cleo explained that every spring they bought a few chicks.

Across the road, Ray spring-cleaned for Lola, running the vacuum and washing the windows. She’d decided she wanted a paint job on the mobile home and had settled on lavender. So, Ray had to postpone our daily meetings in the root cellar. Sometimes I went over alone; I’d gotten so used to writing there. Lissa’s portrait was still on the wall, but when we weren’t in the cellar, we kept her covered with a sheet. Ray was cooperative about that. Even though he was dying to show off the painting, he’d even kept it from Lola, because I’d asked him to.

Every day after he was done painting their home, Ray took to coming to the store. He’d gone through the rest of the ginger ale and was working on a case of orange pop. He was kind of mad when he found out we were planning to use the stale cupcakes to feed our chickens. Sometimes he stayed for supper. But he still saved time for galloping. Sometimes I even joined him, but I couldn’t actually bring myself to gallop. Even though no one was looking, I was afraid to act like a fool. So instead of galloping next to Ray, I jogged.

There were lots of logs to split in the spring. We’d gone to the end of the woodpile and it was so chilly we still used the stove. Time and again Aunt Minnie coached me, but I still hadn’t hit the sweet spot. I’d
take a log from under the porch and lean it up against a stump. I’d hit it with the ax, and the ax would get stuck. Aunt Minnie would watch me, chuckling.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“You’ve got to develop a feel for it. Once you hit that sweet spot, your troubles will be over.”

On a day when the first warm breeze was licking my face, I finally made a clean cut and split a huge log in two.

“I found it!” I cried, jumping up and down. “I found the sweet spot!”

All the snow vanished, except on the tippy-tops of the mountains. My legs got so restless! I walked up and down the road. Then I walked into the woods beyond the spot where I’d been splitting logs. The markers in our family graveyard peeked up through dark, soggy leaves along with some tiny white crocuses. My heart beat faster. This was the place where they’d lowered Nadine’s coffin into the ground. I tried to remember the details, but I couldn’t. Where was the mountain that I had seen? Where was the spot where they had lowered her? I got down on my hands and knees looking for her name.
PROUD
was on all the markers, but I didn’t see Nadine’s.

“She’s under the tree,” a voice said behind me. It was Aunt Minnie. She was standing there in a jacket and work boots.

“You and I were thinking the same thing,” she said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to come here.” I got up quickly.

“Well, this is your mama’s.” She pointed out a spot
a little apart from the rest. “She used to like to climb that tree. So we put her under it.”

I crossed to the stone. My eyes scanned what was written on it.
NADINE PROUD
, 1970–1996. I turned away quickly.

“She played in the graveyard? That’s spooky.”

“There wasn’t much your mama was afraid of. A few ghosts wouldn’t have scared her.”

“Right. She did what she wanted to. That much I remember.”

“Your grandmother and grandfather are over where the rest of them are buried.”

My palms began to sweat. “Nadine never talked about them much. I can’t even remember how they died.”

“Train accident. My brother Thomas, your grandfather, was a porter. Good job. He took your grandmother Cassie on a trip to Chicago. Thomas was going to have a layover there and he thought they might as well … Anyhow, they left your mama with us when they went on their trip. After they died, she just stayed on. She was only ten. It was hard on her.”

The sun ducked behind the clouds. I suddenly felt cold. “Some family—I’m in a long line of dead people.”

“Some of us are still hanging on.”

“Nadine died so young. Does that mean I’ll die young?” I joked.

“Your life is all your own. It doesn’t have to be like your mother’s.”

A taste like iron came into my mouth. “You would
think that Nadine would have tried to hold out a little longer—she knew what it was like to lose her own parents. She could have waited at least until I was eighteen before she died, instead of leaving me with that jerk brother of mine.”

“She loved you.”

“You know she used to sing opera? She went to this guy’s apartment and took me with her. Daddy didn’t know anything about it. After Daddy died, she didn’t sing opera anymore. She developed these headaches and could hardly get out of bed. She stared off into space. She couldn’t read a simple bedtime story.”

“Could be that she was sick for longer than we knew. If only Cleo and I had lived closer, we could have checked on her. When your father died, she was heartbroken.”

“She loved him?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember him throwing the radio in the sink.”

Aunt Minnie sighed. “Most couples have squabbles. But for Nadine the sun rose and set in Reverend Apollo Jones.”

“He was so much older,” I protested. “He robbed the cradle.”

“Oh, he loved her all right! Loved her voice. She sang in the choir at the church. Nobody could touch her when she sang ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow.’ And Reverend Apollo Jones just couldn’t help himself. Already married with a son …”

“Did people gossip?”

“Yes, indeed. It was a scandal.”

“But Daddy married Nadine anyway?”

Her gaze turned hard. “Nadine went after him. We tried to get her to act right. But when she wanted something, she went after it.”

My eyes smarted with tears. “Guess she wanted to be with him more than she wanted to be with me. As soon as he died, she died, too.”

“Don’t be bitter, Orphea. If your mama died of a broken heart, it wasn’t because she wanted to leave you behind.”

“Then why did she die?”

“Like I said, maybe she was sick for longer than we knew. Could have had a brain tumor growing. Or maybe she wasn’t as strong as we all thought.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Nadine was the strongest person I’ve ever known. She did whatever she wanted to.”

Tears welled up inside me. I fought them back. I knew I was demanding explanations for something that couldn’t be answered. And I couldn’t help it.

I felt Aunt Minnie’s callused hand grip my shoulder. “If Nadine was strong, you’re stronger.”

“Then why do I feel so weak?”

You know how when things are bad, the littlest thing can pick you up?

Ray had finished the mobile home. Lola was ecstatic.

“My boy is the best painter! Ain’t it pretty?”

“Gorgeous!” said Aunt Cleo. “Indeed and trust, I’ve never seen light purple I liked better, except maybe the color of lilacs.”

“Think Ray could spruce up our place?” Aunt Minnie asked. “We can pay him soon as we get a ride down to the bank.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Lola.

So Ray began to paint the store. Aunt Cleo wanted it pink like it always had been, but Aunt Minnie insisted on yellow.

“We need a change around here,” she said firmly. “Getting tired of looking at the same stuff.” The following Saturday, Lola went to the hardware store in town and picked up some yellow paint. She got a small can of shiny black as well, so that Ray could spruce the sign up.

“I wanted it painted pink like always,” Aunt Cleo muttered. “Don’t know why you have to always get your way, Minnie.”

“Because I’m oldest,” Aunt Minnie said, spitting into her tobacco juice can.

One day, while I was out on the porch with Ray, helping him mix paint, Aunt Cleo wheeled herself over and nabbed me.

“Lookee here,” she whispered, grabbing my elbow.

“Something you’d like, Aunt Cleo?”

“Want to show you something.”

I came closer.

She tugged at her story quilt. “Can’t let Minnie get wind of this.”

“Aunt Minnie is in the back, clearing out her garden.”

Ray looked up curiously.

“You can hear, Ray,” said Aunt Cleo. “This concerns you, too.”

We sat at her feet. She took the story quilt off her shoulders and spread it on her lap.

“See this here patch on the quilt with the three black bars? Those bars are an iron gate.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ray.

“You pointed that square out to me once before,” I told her.

She nodded. “It’s for our Grimes relative. Your great-great-grandfather whose body got stolen!”

“Stolen? He’s not buried out back with the rest of the family?”

She shook her head.

“Who stole his body?” asked Ray.

“Hate to say this, Ray. But it’s your people.”

“I didn’t steal no corpse, now …”

“Of course not, boy. Not saying you did. But he was Grimes and when he died, the Grimeses came to take him away.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Use your brain, girl—he was white and so are they.”

I glanced at Ray. His face had turned red.

“It was the rich Grimeses,” added Aunt Cleo.

“Oh, well, that’s a different branch altogether,” Ray said, perking up.

I still felt uneasy. “Why are you mentioning it, Aunt Cleo? It’s in the past. Why don’t we talk about some of the other squares in the story quilt?”

“Because it isn’t in the past! Minnie and I promised our own father that we’d go to where the Grimeses are buried.”

“Where’s that?”

Her eyes got wider. “In the white cemetery.”

“What kind of cemetery is that?”

“The segregated kind.”

“Maybe you better start at the beginning, Aunt Cleo.”

“My father’s mother was Gabriella Proud. She married a man named Grimes. She was black and he was white. Of course, it wasn’t legal for different races to get hitched in them days.

“But my grandmother Gabe, that’s what they called her, was going to be her own person and love who she wanted and she loved this white fella. From the rich branch of the Grimes family.”

Ray snorted. “This means I had nothing to do with it.”

“Are you sure you have this straight?” I asked Aunt Cleo. “The stories I hear about white men and black women in the old days—”