Wouldn’t Change a Thing (12 page)

“Did anyone say anything? Do anything?”

“Everyone went home in fear. I told Francine watching Greta was like watching my Daddy all over again.”

“Uncle Grady, correct?”

“Yes. You probably never heard of my father, since there's an eighteen-year age difference between him and your mother. He clicked out before you were born. He died in a mental institution in Florida a few years ago.”

“I wish I had known. I mean, about him.”

“Clayton knew about Daddy's death. He and Russell sent a beautiful arrangement to the funeral.”

Walter releases my hand and pats my back. Edwina holds up one finger and he stands, empty plate in hand, and goes to the kitchen. He returns with a bag across his shoulder.

“I'm going to see a man about a mule.”

“Walter Crittenden, one more Hurston phrase.”

They laugh in unison, leaving me in the dark.

She reaches for the book on the buffet. “Walter's headed to the library for a one o'clock meeting. It's our One Book, One City reading program. The library picks a yearly reading list to discuss. July's book is Zora Neale Hurston's
Their Eyes Were Watching God.”

“I got sixty acres.”

“Walter!” He doubles back and kisses her cheek. She blushes and gives his butt a light tap. “Get on out of here, old man!”

He leaves and I wrestle with my vanishing appetite. The food is delicious, but the more I learn about my family, the less I want to eat.

“I can wrap your plate up, Toni.”

“I'd love to eat it later. I'm a little overwhelmed right now.”

She takes our plates and I go to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I return, she's nestled on the sofa, patting the cushion next to her. Several photo albums are open, and I grab the nearest one.

“Ready for your history lesson?”

I nod and settle back on the sofa. Hours pass and I learn about my grandmother, Rose, my uncle, Grady, and all the relatives who dropped them like hot coals when their illnesses progressed. I lift the plastic shield and gently release a picture of Grady and a woman hugged up next to him at a Trailways bus terminal. I flip the photo over and read the date:
May 31, 1969.

“Where was this taken?”

“Macon, Georgia.” Edwina holds the photo, then hugs it. “This is my parents' last photo before he lost his freedom.”

I wait for her to explain. Her eyes are misty, but she plows forward.

“Daddy had gotten his master's degree and my mother was so excited about him moving us to Texas. She thought he was stressed out over getting his degree. She ignored his behavior—waking up in the middle of the night and walking around the house talking to himself—but things grew stranger. She hid his behavior from us until the trip. He boarded the bus, and hours later, she received a call in the middle of the night about his outburst. He'd made it as far as the Texas state line when he was put off the bus. He said God came up through the floor of the bus and told him to kill the driver. The other passengers fought him, and my mother went to pick him up. She was uneducated about the mental illness maze and had him institutionalized. First, he went to Georgia Mental. We'd go back and forth to see him, even brought him to Sparta a time or two, but he was never able to function on his own. Back then, they didn't have all the modern treatments and medicine they have now. He received electroshock therapy and was later moved to Seaborn Hospital down in Florida. That's where he died.”

“Mama never said anything about him as far as I can remember.”

“The onset of her illness started after you were born. That's when we all noticed small changes in her.”

So I caused my mother's sickness?
“What about my grandmother?”

“Grandma Rose, my father, and your mother are the three who suffered most. I think that's why Norlyza and Carrie Bell didn't have children. I also believe that's why they took your sister in, too. Probably thought they could help the family out since we were so scattered.”

Keep acting up and they're gonna send you to Milledgeville
was the playground taunt when I was in school. It wasn't until Mama's meltdown that I understood the threat. I drop my head. The photo albums are filled with rich stories, people who share my DNA, and I don't know them. Edwina lifts my chin with her soft hands until we face each other.

“What are you going to do about your mother?”

“There's a treatment meeting soon that I plan to attend. I want to bring her to the home-house soon. I won't burden Uncle May and Ray with our presence.”

“I can help you out with her. The one thing I share with Mavis is a nursing background. Daddy's illness made me pursue this field. Trust me when I say you'll need a break from time to time. Taking care of your mother won't be a picnic in the park. You have to keep her occupied and she has to stay on top of her medicine. Otherwise, she'll be right back at GMH.”

“What else should I do?”

“Indulge her hallucinations. If she says she sees something, go along. If she thinks you're calling her crazy, she may lash out.”

I ponder her instructions, unsure if I'm cut out for this. “I'll keep you posted.”

I stand, not wanting to take up another minute of Edwina's time. She stands with me.

“Do you want me to put your food in Tupperware?”

“Yes, please. I haven't eaten good liver, onions, and rice since Clayton cooked. I wish I knew how to cook good Southern staples.”

“My doors are always open for cooking lessons. We're family. Don't be a stranger.”

She packs the food and walks me out. Midnight and Tic-Tac, still relaxing by the flowers, jump up and follow me to the car.

“Cousin Edwina, do I want to know why Tic-Tac has three legs?”

Edwina kneels and pets Tic-Tac. “He climbed up in Walt's truck one day. Thought he'd explore the engine. Walt started the truck not knowing he was there, and well…” I touch my chest. “Wasn't Tic-Tac's fault. Walt retired from John Deere a few years ago. He drove back and forth to Augusta for years, so Tic-Tac wasn't used to seeing the truck around.”

We hug each other again and I get in my car feeling empowered. Today was a good start to putting the missing pieces of my family puzzle together. As I drive out of her yard, my phone buzzes. My day just got luckier. It's Willa calling.

I
'm exploring my childhood home as I wait for Willa. Daddy dubbed it the home-house because he said wherever we went in the world, if we succeeded or failed, we could always come back home. When I spoke with Willa a few days ago, I couldn't get the question,
Will you come see me?
out of my mouth before she said yes. I apologized for snubbing her and begged her forgiveness.

May and Ray have outdone themselves. A passerby would never know the house is empty. The freshly mowed lawn is reminiscent of the old days. The striped technique is the one Daddy used when we were kids. I'd jump on the riding mower with him as he rode the acreage making straight lines, then going in the opposite direction. He said since he didn't have sons that would play major league baseball, the yard may as well look like a baseball field. Green thumbs are in our blood. Hanging flower baskets and urns fill the porch. Seasonal flowers line a bricked path that encloses the oak tree in the front yard. The tree enhances the house's view. Willa and I took turns helping Daddy paint the shutters of our white house. Mama said the house always had to be white, but we could choose shutter paint. Deep burgundy was the last color we chose. A fresh coat remains.

I run to the backyard to see what other memories have been preserved. The clothesline anchored by two wooden posts remains. Mama said clothes were better hand-washed, so most Saturdays, she enlisted Willa and me to boil water and pour it in a huge silver tub while she went to work on our clothes using a washing board and Aunt Mavis's handmade soap. Never mind the fact we had a spanking brand-new Maytag washer and dryer in the laundry room. Daddy reminded her of this one Saturday when he snatched the soap from her hand and waved the purchase receipt from Sears in her face. He called her country and backwards. She called him stupid and susceptible to germs and the conspiracy of the traitors who rigged the machines with poisonous dyes that would stain our clothes and kill us all. They compromised; she washed the clothes in the Maytag, but hung them on the line.

The homemade fish cleaning table stands. Every Thursday, we'd gather round the table, line it with parchment paper, and carry trays of perch, mullet, and catfish for her to clean. She didn't want us getting scales on our bodies or cutting ourselves, so she shooed us inside with Daddy to play records and dance. She was in her own world when she prepared our dinner.

I travel farther on our land in search of the old well. The steep well frightened us all. Except Mama. She'd dance around it, dropping the bucket in the shallow hole and drawing water for her flowers. Daddy cemented the well when he caught her climbing in after one of her tormentors.

It has stood the test of time, its wooden shelter still intact. I lift the water bucket from the wood covering the cemented top. The oily, rusted chains alongside the bucket are slick and it slips from my grasp like an eel. I stoop to pick up the warped bucket.

“Tell us how you cut him!” a voice says.

My hands shake and I deepen my voice. “I didn't cut him with no knife.”

The voice is closer now, and my insides warm as she says, “Last night, you told me you cut the dude.”

My mock bass is gravelly as I recite our favorite scene in
Trading Places.
“It was with these, I cut him. I am a chain belt in Kung-Fu. Bruce Lee was my teacher. Watch this.”

I whirl around, left hand forward, palm of my right hand near my left wrist. I shout perfect karate sounds like Eddie Murphy. My standing leg kick is whip-fast and Willa laughs at me. I can't make my butterfly karate pose with my arms suspended in the air, right leg lifted, before we sweep each other up in a hug. I inhale the flowery smell of my sister's perfume, the fruity shampoo in her hair. She stands back so we can take a good look at each other. We each get an eyeful of twenty-three years of change.

“Little Sis! Antoinette Maria Willamson. Look at you!”

I'm underdressed compared to her. Golden brown and statuesque, she sports jeans and a classy Casual Friday blouse.

“Willadean Amber Willi—I mean Alston.”

“My name is Willa. Dropped the Dean before I got shipped out of Sparta, remember?”

“You'll always be Willadean to me.”

A moment of awkwardness passes between us before she takes my hand. “Come with me. I want you to meet someone.”

We walk to her car, surveying the land of our youth. A smirk is the first thing I see on McKenna's face. When she sees us, she drops her head. Willa motions for her to speak, but she turns her back.

“McKenna, get out of the car. I want you to meet your aunt.”

She huffs and exits the car, attitude for days.

“Hi.” She thrusts her left hand forward and shakes my hand with as much enthusiasm as a taxpayer waiting for an audit. She glances at her watch and addresses Willa. “Mom, I thought we were here for a little while. I have a date with Uriah tonight.”

“We'll be here as long as I say so.”

“Mom, we're in the middle of nowhere!” She rolls her eyes at Willa and snorts.

Willa blows out a quick burst of air and says to me, “Give me a few seconds.”

She points to the garden hose on the side of the house and they walk toward it. I don't know what Willa is saying, but her left hand is on her hip as her right fingers swirl in McKenna's face. McKenna's attitude disappears with each swirl. McKenna takes a deep breath, twists the ends of her curls, and heads toward me, Willa in tow.

My niece addresses me. “I'm sorry for my attitude.”

Willa clucks her tongue and looks just like Mama when she says, “Aliens invaded her body six months ago. Maybe my teen will return before her eighteenth birthday.” She asks McKenna, “Shall we try it again?”

“Hello, Aunt Antoinette. It's nice to meet you.”

“Call me Toni. You can even drop the Aunt.”

“Nice to meet you, Toni.” The aliens have fled McKenna's body for the moment and she shyly asks Willa, “Mom, may I call Uriah?”

“Make it fast. We're going in the house.”

Willa joins me and I give her an extra key to the house, courtesy of Aunt Mavis. “All these years, I thought the house was gone. It looks like somebody still lives here.”

“Get this, Willa. Daddy's maintained the property all these years for the two of us. May and Ray have a cleaning lady who comes in twice a month to dust and sweep, and a company does a quarterly deep clean. He was afraid Mama would destroy the house.”

“I'd have to agree.”

“Willa!”