The Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond (15 page)

B
ecause his dad, Harris, was home when we got to Ahmed's house, we had to go in and visit, and after a while Ahmed and I went outside in his backyard. From across the fence a face popped up. Jo'Nelle again. Her eyes landed on me and she said, “Hey.”

“What you want, nosy?” Ahmed asked her.

“Ain't nobody talkin' to you, Ahmed. I was talkin' to your so-called cuzzin.”

“Hey,” she repeated.

“Hi,” I replied.

“Where you from?”

“She's from nunya bizness,” Ahmed snapped back.

“I'm from Moon Lake, Washington.”

“I'm Jo'Nelle. What's your name?”

“Violet.”

Jo'Nelle smirked and muttered, “Huh?”

“Don't play deaf, nosy. You heard her. Her name is Violet. V-I-O-L-E-T,” Ahmed spelled out.

“How come your mama gave you a white girl name?”

Ahmed answered for me. “Cuz her mama's white. That's how come.”

“For real? So all that hair ain't no weave?”

“Nope, it's not a weave,” I said.

“Can I braid it? Pleeeeeeze. I'm gonna be a hairstylist. It'll look good. I promise.”

The last time someone had messed with my hair, it had turned out all wrong.

“I dunno how long we'll be here,” I replied.

“That you don't need to worry about,” Ahmed said. “Once Auntie Roxanne and my daddy start talking, there ain't no stopping them. Plus I heard them say y'all are staying for dinner.”

Before I knew it, Jo'Nelle had tossed a bag over the fence and leaped into Ahmed's yard. She sat down behind me and sprayed something into my hair.

“What is that?”

“Stuff for braids. You want cornrows? I could do cornrows real good.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“You'll be sorry,” Ahmed warned, and headed inside.

Jo'Nelle must have had some kind of magic in her fingers, because in no time flat it seemed like she was finished. Together we went inside so I could see. My hair was braided into thick cornrows with a side part. And I had to admit, I really liked it. “It looks pretty. Do I have to pay you? Because I didn't bring any money.”

“This time it's free, but next time you gotta pay me fifteen dollars.”

Because I figured there would never be a next time, I agreed.

Jo'Nelle dragged me by the hand and we burst into the living room, where Harris and Bibi were still yakking.

Bibi's eyes opened wide. “Your hair . . . I love it.”

“Sweeeeet,” Harris said.

Jo'Nelle beamed. “Told ya. I'm the best. And I could hook you up with some big gold hoop earrings I got a whole mess of.”

I fingered the emerald earrings I was wearing.

“No, but thank you,” Bibi told her.

From next door a woman yelled, “Jo'Nelle! Get home now! This food's abouta burn up on the stove.”

“One other thing. You got that soft hair, so them braids ain't gonna stay that long. If you put rubber bands on the ends, they might keep a little longer.”

“Jo'Nelle!” the voice from next door screamed again.

Jo'Nelle flew out the door.

I went into the bathroom, stared into the mirror again, and ran my hands over my braids. I felt like some kind of spice that's only found in faraway places. Exotic, yep, that's the word.

Ahmed peeked in, gawked, said, “Cool,” and invited me into his room to play video games.

“So what's your sister like?” he asked as we sat side by side at the computer.

“Daisy? She's mostly nice,” I told him.

“She's white, huh? That's what my pops said.”

“Yep, she is.”

“I think that'd be weird,” he said, “having a white sister. Is it?”

Because he'd been mostly annoying, I wasn't sure I wanted to tell him the truth. But he was staring at me with that I'm-waiting-for-a-reply look, and the last thing I wanted was for him to start to badger me the way Yaz does. I hate being badgered.

There was only one honest answer to the question. “Sometimes,” I said.

“I figured,” he replied. “Because I was thinking about how I would feel and all I could come up with was
strraaange.
”

“Only because some people are stupid and they act funny. That's the part I don't like. But she is nice and kind of cool,” I told him. “Mostly I try to think about that.”

For once Ahmed was quiet, as if he didn't know what to say.

After too much silence, I told him, “Thanks for not letting me fall into the ocean today.”

“Like I told you before . . . ain't nuthin'.”

W
hat's this?” I asked, handing Bibi a tattered scrapbook the next morning. “I found it in a box in the closet in my room.” The words
Dream Book
were peeling from the cover.

“Well, little detective,” Bibi joked, “I haven't seen that in so long, I forgot I even had it. That is my mother's Dream Book.”

“I expected it to be about dreams, the kind you have when you sleep, but mostly there are just a lot of pictures? Pictures of a washing machine, and a two-story brick house, and nail polish and party dresses, and fancy high heels from a long time ago, and pictures of jewelry. And I found this old hair net.”

“Those were my mother's dreams. Things she longed for. Things lots of colored women who worked in white folks' homes or in the hotels longed for.”

“
Colored
means black?”

“It did.”

“She didn't have a washing machine?”

“Nope. She used to sneak and do our laundry at the hotel where she worked for what seemed like forever. And she saved her whole life so I could go to college. Saved me from having her life.”

“That was nice of her. What was her name?”

“Your great-grandmother was named Madeline Roxanne Keyes.”

“So we both have her name.”

Bibi's eyes got watery.

“Do you have pictures of her . . . and your father?”

“Of course.”

“How come you didn't show them to me?”

She jumped up from where she was reading the newspaper and scurried down the hallway. “Plum forgot!” she said loudly.

I put down the Dream Book, followed behind, and found her standing on a stool in front of her closet. One by one she handed me photo album after photo album, five in all.

“Can we scan these so I can have copies, too? I'd rather do that today than paint. Because I want to know about both parts of my family.”

“My scanner is on the blink.”

“You should get a new one. They're not that expensive.”

“Lord have mercy, you really are as tenacious as your father.”

“Which means?”

“Persistent or stubborn.”

“Is it a good or a bad thing?” I asked.

“A very good thing if that tenacity helps you accomplish something good,” Bibi replied.

I smiled. My word book was going to get full.

Bibi bought a new printer/scanner, photo printer paper, and several flash drives.

“Thank you for bringing me into the new century, Violet. Seems like technology changes every time I blink my eye.”

“That's what my poppy thinks, too,” I told her.

Right then, I missed Poppy. And as we drove down Crenshaw Boulevard toward home, I suddenly pictured him standing over the stove, stirring and tasting, adding fresh herbs from the garden. Then, like a slide show, pictures of Moon Lake's green pastures and foothills, distant snow-peaked mountains in the winter, and the crystal-clear lake water flashed inside my mind. I could almost smell the pine from the trees.

Violet Diamond is feeling a little homesick again.

J
ust when I thought we'd scanned every photo, Bibi would find more, mostly of my dad.

In one of the pictures, he was flying a kite. “That's something I'm no good at, kite flying,” I told her.

Bibi chuckled. “Neither was he, but he sure tried. Mostly he liked his books and science. He was a nice child. The best any mother could want.”

Because I wanted her to keep on talking about him, I didn't say a word.

“He wasn't perfect, no one is. And like all families, we had our moments, but in my heart, he was simply the best.”

It seemed like the right time, so I asked the question I'd been waiting to ask since we were on the plane. “Can we go to the cemetery? I want to see his grave and I want to bring some flowers. Is that okay, or if it's going to make you too sad, we don't have to. But before you say no, you should think about me not ever having a dad and how that makes me feel bad sometimes.”

Bibi plopped down in a chair. “He was so excited when your mother got pregnant, V. I'd never heard him happier . . . even painted your room all by himself.
My
Warren would have loved him some you.”

“‘Loved him some you'?” I'd never heard anyone say that before.

“My mother's country Southern way of saying he would have loved you.”

“So, can we please go? I promise not to cry.”

“I have a confession to make. I never think about anyone else crying over
my
Warren. I only think about my own tears.”

“But he didn't just belong to you, and other people loved him. My mom cries over him, too. And she didn't mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

Bibi rested her head in her hands. Soon her body shook with tears.

“I'm sorry . . . never mind . . . we don't have to go.” And then I was crying, too.

Suddenly everything got as still as my house is at two a.m. when I get up to go pee. That still.

Bibi reached for tissues, wiped her tears, and blew her nose. The next thing I knew, she had picked up her purse and said, “C'mon, Violet.”

I trailed her to the door, the sound of the jangling keys in her hand the only sound in the house. “Are we going somewhere?” I asked.

“To the cemetery—he would like that. Funny thing how mothers think no one can love their child as much as they do. Should give me comfort to know that others care. I suppose we were destined, you and I, to have this day.”

“Can we bring some flowers?” I asked, eyeing the sunflowers in the courtyard as we stepped outside.

“Of course.” Bibi headed back inside, returning with garden clippers and some bright blue ribbon. Before long we had made two bouquets and tied them with the ribbon. “How's that?” she asked.

“Really pretty,” I replied as we climbed in the car.

As we drove, something I'd been wondering about got inside my thoughts. “Why is he buried here instead of back near Moon Lake?” I asked.

“I insisted, and under the circumstances, no one opposed me,” Bibi replied.

Oh.

And in about forty-five minutes we were driving toward the gates of Forest Lawn Cemetery.

“It hasn't been that long since I've been here, but I always get lost. We'll have to stop at the office.”

A nice man in the office went over the map with Bibi and we got back in the car. The cemetery streets winded and curved. Finally we stopped.

We gazed into each other's eyes. “Are you sure?” I asked.

“I'm sure.”

Hand in hand we climbed the small hill and searched the grave markers until we found it.

WARREN THURGOOD DIAMOND MD

1966–2003

“SIMPLY THE BEST.”

“He was,” Bibi whispered as she placed the flowers on the grave. “Simply the best.”

I kneeled down, ran my fingers over the letters, placed my sunflowers next to Bibi's bunch, and said, “I'm a lot like you.”

Bibi pulled me to my feet, wrapped her arms around me, and we stared at the marker for what felt like forever.

Good-bye, Warren Thurgood Diamond.

I hope you're happy up there with the angels.

Bibi sure is nice.